


ain't we all just runaways?

by angejolras



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, the road trip au nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-05-18 11:18:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 63,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14851733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angejolras/pseuds/angejolras
Summary: It's the summer before senior year and Grantaire just got his ass dumped. Solution? Drag all his friends along with him on a cross-country road trip. All they've got is three vehicles, a large, undetermined amount of money between all of them courtesy of Jehan and Enjolras, and no particular destination in mind.Depending on which one of them you ask, this may very well turn out to be either the best or the worst decision they've ever made.ON SEMI HIATUS





	1. let's blow a hole in this town

**Author's Note:**

> this story is......... _different_ from my other fics—i'm writing something not completely enjonine-centric for the first time. _but_ , being the enjonine slut i am, of course they're going to be in this fic. for the most part, though, this is pretty friendship-centric and i wanted to explore the relationships between les amis more, be they platonic or romantic. the ships tagged will be endgame, marius/cosette and j/b/m are established from the start. no telling how long the other three will take to get together though :3
> 
> fingers crossed that i manage to pull this off! hope y'all like it!!
> 
> also, have some aaron tveit singing [the song that inspired the title](https://youtu.be/Gp-6x0SqAqM), because i can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy barricade day!!!!!!! here's the first chapter of the road trip au nobody fucking asked for but i really wanted to write, so here you go!

* * *

Grantaire doesn’t usually consider himself to be an overly emotional person, but people can’t possibly expect him not to be upset when a relationship of two years is broken off.

In his defence, he knows of _many_ people who would lock themselves away in their apartment and cry for two days straight while eating entire tubs of Ben and Jerry’s after getting dumped.

Anyone who says men don’t cry can go fuck themselves to the moon and back, in his humble opinion.

Grantaire stands leisurely at the counter of the Café Musain, waiting for his iced coffee and for the others to arrive, hoping they got his text about the emergency meeting he called earlier that day. There’s no reason they could have missed it, considering how he sent them approximately two hundred and seventy-three texts in a row, each one steadily increasing in desperation. Now he’s just waiting to see if they’ll actually show up.

He gratefully takes his iced coffee from the barista who presents him with it, heavily tipping them before he stares out the window and feels an odd wave of relief wash over him upon seeing Jehan Prouvaire approaching the café outside. As he takes a sip of his coffee, Grantaire supposes that there’s a bright side to his breakup. At least he was dumped towards the end of the semester—he and his fellow friends have a mere day left of their junior year of college before summer begins and they’re free to do whatever the fuck they want. Only one day left before they can pack up and leave this little college town of Everytown, America for vacation, and he’s got some _very_ great plans for the summer and he _will_ make everyone else come with him if it’s the last thing he does.

The sound of the bell tinkling above the door signals Jehan’s entrance and his lips stretch into a smile as he approaches Grantaire at the counter. “Hi! I got the texts you sent,” he tells the brunet cheerfully, bubbly as ever, blue eyes sparkling. “You know you didn’t really need to spam us, right?”

Grantaire shrugs, taking another sip of his coffee. “It was for emphasis.”

Jehan shakes his head, but the little smile on his face betrays his true feelings about the matter. “Well, everyone else is on the way.”

“Good.” His plan is working. Well, the first part of it, anyway.

Eventually, everyone else arrives, starting with Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta and soon followed by Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras before they’re joined by Marius and Cosette, Éponine arriving shortly after. Bahorel and Feuilly are the last to arrive, and once they do, Grantaire finds them all seats in a corner after a few of them buy drinks, Éponine shooting him a withering glare as she takes a seat in an armchair by the window, away from the rest of them.

“I’m going to fucking murder you if you ever spam us like that again,” she threatens. “I’ll rip your testicles off.” The fact that she takes a bite out of a giant chocolate chip cookie immediately afterwards waters down the ferocity of her threat.

“I’d like to see you try,” Grantaire retorts.

Combeferre sighs. “Why did you call us here, Grantaire?”

“I’m getting there,” Grantaire tells him, rolling his eyes. “Don’t rush me. I need time to _prepare_.”

“Jesus Christ,” he hears Enjolras mutter under his breath, the blond rubbing his temple in exasperation. Grantaire simply makes a face and sticks his tongue out at Enjolras behind the golden-haired man’s back, evoking a giggle from Cosette before she quickly quiets down when Enjolras gives her a strange look.

After several minutes of silence, Grantaire shouts out, “Okay, listen up, sluts!”

Almost everyone jumps at the unexpectedness of it all, Marius nearly falling out of his seat at the sheer volume of Grantaire’s exclamation. Pleased with himself, Grantaire announces, “As you all may know from the two hundred and seventy-three texts I sent earlier today, my girlfriend just dumped me!”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Bahorel snarks, earning himself a sugar packet to the head.

“As you can probably tell, I’m _heartbroken_ ,” Grantaire dramatically proclaims, chucking another sugar packet at Courfeyrac’s head this time when he sees him roll his eyes.

“Oh, yes, we can all see just how _miserable_ you are about it,” Musichetta remarks. Grantaire can’t quite tell if she’s being sarcastic or not, given how she speaks that way ninety-eight percent of the time.

“ _Anyway_ , summer is just a day away, right?” When everyone nods yes, Grantaire pauses for dramatic effect before he proclaims, “I’m inviting you guys to come with me on a cross-country road trip to help mend my broken heart. And _no_ , you don’t have a choice, you’re coming on the road trip with me. Enj, Jehan, you’ve got moolah, don’t you?”

Jehan nods while Enjolras makes a face before reluctantly nodding yes. Grantaire grins.

“Come on, guys, it’s our last summer before senior year,” he points out when some begin to look doubtful of his plans. “It’s our last chance to be young and stupid before we graduate and have to deal with the consequences of adulthood. We’re twenty-one! Let’s live a little! Leave the past behind!”

Éponine scrunches up her face in doubt before the sceptical look on her face eventually falls away. “A road trip _does_ sound fun,” she admits. “But I’m only coming if everything’s being paid for. You all know I’m broke as fuck.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Enj and Jehan are going to pay for most of it. Aren’t you?” Grantaire fixes his gaze on Enjolras, raising his eyebrows expectantly. He knows full well of how both Jehan and Enjolras come from rich-ass families and have quite a lot of money to spare, and fuck all if Grantaire’s not going to use that to his advantage. After staring Enjolras down, the blond sighs and gives in.

“Fine, I’ll help pay,” he reluctantly agrees, earning himself a whoop of delight from Grantaire.

“Okay, that’s settled then! Thank you, Gabriel Enjolras and Jehan Prouvaire, for your generous donations to our humble cause,” he makes a big show of thanking them both, an infuriating smirk on his face as Enjolras rolls his eyes. A fleeting thought about how Enjolras’ eyes are going to roll right off his face if he keeps going at that rate crosses Grantaire’s mind and makes him snigger before he composes himself and says, “So, next step. We’ll need transport. How many of us are there?”

After doing a quick headcount, Grantaire announces, “Thirteen! Okay, we could rent a full-size van, but then we’ll also have to take the amount of luggage into consideration…” After considering it, he mumbles mostly to himself, “Okay, so if we rent a big van, we could fit about eight people and most of the luggage into that one… And if we also rent a minivan, then that’s three more people to another vehicle and the rest of the luggage… So that’s eleven people down… Ep, you’ve got your truck, right?”

“Yep,” Éponine confirms. About seven months ago, she bought a rusty old 1982 Chevy Silverado pickup truck that she found in a junkyard after managing to scrape up enough money for it and has been working on rebuilding it from scratch with Bahorel’s help at a local garage, and after several months of diligent repair, it’s just as good as new, with a brand new scarlet paint job. It’s not as prone to falling apart at any given moment as it had been when she first bought it, rusted and in pieces, and Éponine’s quite pleased with how it turned out, never having had a vehicle of her own before.

“Okay, then it’s settled!” Grantaire grins and claps his hands together. “So we’ll rent one full-size van and one minivan and have Ep bring her truck along. Eight people to the van, three people to the minivan, and two people to Éponine’s truck, one of whom will be Ep herself.” He thinks he imagines it, but he could have sworn that Enjolras perks up just the tiniest amount when Grantaire proclaims that there’ll be one other person with Éponine in the truck. Grinning deviously to himself as a plan begins to formulate in his head, he calls out, “Sound good?”

Cosette gives Grantaire an immediate double thumbs-up, beaming. “We’re going on an adventure!”

“Hell yeah, we are!” Grantaire pumps his fists into the air, letting out a whoop. “Okay, so when should we leave? Three days is enough to pack up for a two-month trip, right?”

“Sure, why not?” Courfeyrac shrugs his shoulders, taking a bite out of a cookie he stole from Éponine’s plate. “How are we going to do this?”

“Let’s just fucking wing it,” Bahorel says. “Make it like one of those ‘choose-your-own-adventure’ books.”

“Hell yeah, spontaneity!” Grantaire rushes over to embrace Bahorel from behind before he lets go and jumps up and down. “Okay, so where will we meet in three days?”

“Let’s just meet back here with our luggage,” Musichetta calls out. “I’m assuming you’ll be the one to rent the van and the minivan?”

“Yeah, with Enj’s and Jehan’s money,” Grantaire replies. “Okay, so meet me back here in three days, ’kay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Combeferre responds. “What time?”

“Uh…” After considering it for a few moments, Grantaire’s just about to respond when Jehan pipes up.

“Seven in the morning!” he suggests. “Does that sound good?”

“Why the hell not?” Feuilly gets up, grabbing Bahorel’s hand. “We’ll see you then!” With that, he drags Bahorel out of the coffee shop, leaving the others to stare after them as they begin to get up and file out of the coffee shop. Grantaire narrows his eyes as he intently watches Enjolras watching Éponine exit the coffee shop, trailing after Marius and Cosette, and he heads over to talk to the blond once Éponine disappears from sight.

“Is it just me, or do I sense a crush?”

Enjolras’ blue eyes widen and his cheeks immediately burn scarlet. Nevertheless, he manages to maintain a level-headed composure, replying coldly, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” Grantaire pats Enjolras on the back, a knowing smirk on his face that absolutely _infuriates_ the blond to no end. “I’ll be assigning people to each vehicle, by the way.” After pretending to contemplate it for a few moments, Grantaire tells Enjolras, “I think I’ll put you in Éponine’s truck with her.”

Enjolras barely has time to splutter indignantly before Grantaire makes his way over to Jehan, tapping the ginger on the shoulder. When Jehan turns around, Grantaire flashes him a grin. “Shall we go rent some vans?”

* * *

She’s never been much of a romantic—the complete opposite of it, in fact—but she’s always considered summer to be ripe with freedom and opportunity, a breath of fresh air, a chance at new beginnings. At least, that’s what she’s thinking as she fills two suitcases, one enormous and the other tiny, to the brim with clothing and deodorant and CD’s and anything else she might need for the road.

Éponine walks around her ridiculously tiny off-campus apartment in search of anything else she might need for the trip, connecting her phone to the Bluetooth speaker she received from Grantaire along with a pair of over-ear headphones for her twenty-first birthday back at the end of March. Early morning sunlight streams in through the windows as she hums along to Fall Out Boy, thinking about how this is her chance to leave everything behind for once, an escape from her old life. Also, it’ll be really nice to not have to see Montparnasse’s greasy, slimeball-y self every damn day on campus and be reminded of how she dated him all throughout freshman year back when she was a fool.

She’s looking forward to being on the road with her friends, never having had such a tight-knit group of friends before and grateful for the fact that she befriended them in their freshman year. Les Amis de l’ABC, as they call themselves. Because everything sounds fancier in French. She snorts as the music switches over from Fall Out Boy to Poppy just as she hears a knock at her door, looking up.

Éponine heads over to answer it and opens the door to find Cosette standing there, a big floppy sun hat on her head and a pair of round, mirrored blue cat's-eye sunglasses perched on the bridge of the blonde’s nose. “What’s up?” Éponine greets as Cosette gives her a cheery, toothy smile. The brunette notices two suitcases behind the blonde, both enormous, and she wonders what Cosette could possibly have that requires such large suitcases.

“We’re supposed to meet in front of the café in…” Cosette takes her phone out to check the time before announcing cheerfully, “Exactly one hour! You done packing?”

“Yep, just gotta find my camcorder,” Éponine replies, beginning to trudge all over her room on a hunt for her video camera, eventually finding it at the back of a drawer full of various knick-knacks she no longer feels any need for but hasn’t disposed of due to her irrational urge to keep everything she’s ever owned. “Here it is.” She places it in its case before dropping it haphazardly into her red galaxy-print JanSport backpack along with various chargers and snacks and her headphones and such. Slinging the backpack over one shoulder and zipping up her suitcases after doing one final check to make sure she has everything—clothes, toiletries, menstrual products, her giant bisexual flag, three months’ worth of birth control pills, packets of condoms because she's never been able to trust people enough to let them bring their own condoms, party-size bags of Cheetos, and the like—Éponine turns back to Cosette. “Where’s Marius?”

“On his way,” Cosette replies. “Had some issues with luggage.”

Éponine snorts as she turns off her Bluetooth speaker and shoves it into her backpack before placing her phone in her pocket, shoving her brown newsboy cap into her backpack before looking around to make sure she’s all set. Once she’s certain of it, Marius comes rushing in, panting and dragging one massive suitcase that looks as if it’s going to burst at any given moment behind him. Éponine eyes it with a distasteful look crossing her face for a fleeting second before she shakes it off, pulling her suitcases off her bed and turning to the couple. “Should we go?”

It takes a total of fifteen minutes for them to reach the café by Éponine’s truck, their luggage stacked neatly in the truck bed behind them, and once she parks behind the van Grantaire rented a couple of days prior, she slides out of the driver’s seat and into the sunshine as Marius and Cosette do the same beside her, going over to drag their luggage off the truck bed and onto the pavement. Dragging her suitcases over to Grantaire, her backpack slung over one shoulder, she stands beside him and puts her mirrored aviator sunglasses on to shield her eyes from the blinding sunlight, not a cloud to be seen in the endless blue skies.

“So how’s it going?” Éponine asks, successfully stealing Grantaire from his train of thought. He turns his head to look at her, brow furrowed. When he doesn’t respond, simply giving her a quizzical look, Éponine clarifies, “Who’s going to be in which car and shit?”

“Oh, that.” Grantaire seems rather startled at being pulled out of his train of thought, quickly recovering and informing her, “I think I’ll put Marius, Cosette, and Courf in the minivan with some of the luggage while the rest of the luggage is going to be in the van with the rest of us. Enjy’s going to be riding with you in your truck. You don’t mind, do you?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow expectantly as Éponine purses her lips, contemplating it.

“Why not?” she says at last, shrugging her shoulders noncommittally. “He’s a good guy. Really outspoken when it comes to politics, though. Like, we all agree with him and all, but damn.”

“Yeah, we know,” Grantaire replies, letting out a snort at the memory of Enjolras’ last alcohol-fuelled rant about the Republican party just as Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras himself approach them, luggage in hand.

Éponine raises her eyebrows at the sight of what Enjolras is wearing—for as long as she’s known him, she’s never seen him wear shorts before. His choice of clothing for the day consists of a blue plaid shirt (Éponine doesn’t fail to notice how he seems to have forgotten to do up the top three buttons), jean shorts, and a pair of red Chucks along with wayfarer sunglasses. Turning her gaze to Courfeyrac and Combeferre, she makes a face at the ridiculous cowboy hat with a turned-up brim perched atop Courfeyrac’s unruly chocolate-brown curls.

Éponine places her sunglasses on the top of her head in disbelief and calls out, “Courf, what the _fuck_ are you wearing?”

Courfeyrac simply shoots a shit-eating grin her way in response, scampering up to her just to tip his hat at her and greet in a _ghastly_ imitation of a Southern accent, “Howdy, madam!”

Éponine merely stares back at him, raising her eyebrows. “You look fucking ridiculous, you know that, right?”

“Why, thank you, ma’am!” He’s still doing the stupid accent and Éponine rolls her eyes, turning away and dragging her suitcases over to give to Jehan, who’s loading some of the luggage into the back of the minivan, before she approaches Enjolras, figuring she’s going to have to talk to him sooner or later if they’re to be riding together for the entirety of the time they’re on the road.

“What’s up, pretty boy?” Enjolras jumps slightly when he hears Éponine’s voice behind him, turning around to face the petite brunette. She cocks her head as she gazes up into his blue eyes, seeming to await a response.

“Oh, hey.” Enjolras visibly relaxes upon laying eyes on Éponine, having tensed up upon hearing her voice before. Taking off his sunglasses and taking in her appearance, he remarks, “You cut your hair.”

“Oh, you noticed!” Éponine looks down at her shoes and grins to herself; of all the Amis she’s talked to that morning, Enjolras is the first one to notice her new haircut. A day prior, she went to the hairdresser and chopped off nearly all of her hair so now it just barely reaches her shoulders, figuring that shorter hair will be easier to take care of during a summer road trip.

“It—it looks nice,” Enjolras tells her, stumbling over his words just a bit, a corner of his mouth turning up in the slightest hint of a half-smile.

Éponine looks back up at him and grins, dimples etching themselves into her cheeks. “Thanks.”

After some time in which they just stand there together, away from the rest of the group, Éponine clears her throat and says, “So we’ll be riding together?”

“I suppose so,” Enjolras confirms, placing his sunglasses on top of his head like Éponine had and shifting from one foot to the other as he steals a glance at Grantaire, giving the dark-haired man a dirty look behind his back. “It’ll be all right. Right?”

“Hope you like the road trip playlist I compiled, otherwise we’ll have a bit of a problem,” Éponine tells him, giving him the smallest hint of a smirk as she looks back up at him.

Enjolras shrugs, unable to keep himself from giving her a tiny smile in return. “I’m sure your taste in music can’t possibly be _that_ horrible.”

Éponine elbows him in the ribs—she supposes that’s one of the very few perks of being friends with a six-foot _monster_ when she’s only five foot four, being able to easily elbow him in the ribs—but she’s laughing. “Oh, fuck off.”

The two of them fall silent once again, unable to find anything else to speak about and simply watching the rest of their friends—at least the ones who have arrived. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta still have yet to make an appearance as well as Bahorel and Feuilly, and after stealing another glance at the time on her phone, Éponine reasons that they have about thirty-four minutes to get to the café so they can all take off as a group. Bahorel and Feuilly arrive eight minutes later, leaving them all waiting for Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta—the three of them are a package deal and are going to be arriving together, and if they don’t hurry the fuck up, then the rest of them will probably just leave them.

Grantaire stomps his way over to Éponine, looking as if he could be emitting steam from his ears and ignoring Enjolras’ presence as he goes to stand on the other side of Éponine, crossing his arms across his chest. “Where the _fuck_ are those three?” he whines petulantly, stomping his foot once again. “We leave in thirteen goddamn minutes! When the fuck will they get their asses over here?”

“Bossuet probably lost something,” Éponine guesses dryly, taking her phone out to call Musichetta. “Hold up, I’ll call them.”

* * *

“I _can’t find my camera_!”

Unexpectedly enough, it’s _Joly_ who’s lost something, _not_ Bossuet, and he rushes around the bedroom tossing things pell-mell onto the bed and onto the floor in a desperate search for his camera while Musichetta is perched at the edge of their bed, a vaguely Bossuet-shaped lump buried underneath a pile of clothes beside her. Musichetta is all set, clad in a loose-fitting floral-patterned off-the-shoulder blouse along with a pair of ripped denim high-waisted shorts and a pair of navy-blue Chucks, a floppy sun hat perched on her head along with a pair of round mirrored sunglasses, and now she’s just waiting for her stupid boyfriend to find his goddamn camera so they can get going.

“Have you looked in the closet?” Bossuet calls out, voice muffled by the sheer amount of clothes he’s buried under.

Joly turns around, eyes wild and frantic. “Yes!” he cries out, despairing. “It’s not there!”

“Have you checked under the bed?” Musichetta suggests, and immediately, Joly dives down to wriggle about in the narrow space with his phone light on as Bossuet bursts out of the pile of clothes, sucking in a deep breath and rubbing his head. Musichetta makes a face and takes her sun hat off, holding it in her lap and laying her head on Bossuet’s shoulder while their boyfriend searches for his camera under the bed. After several moments in which Joly still doesn’t emerge from under the bed, Musichetta feels her tote bag vibrating and digs around for her phone, which she assumes is the cause of the vibrating, and lifts her head before picking up, holding the phone up to her ear.

 _“Chetta!”_ She’s greeted by the sound of Éponine’s voice, exasperation and impatience evident in the other woman’s tone. _“Where the hell are you three?! You have twelve minutes to get here, damn it!”_

“Dumbass boyfriend can’t find his camera,” Musichetta replies through clenched teeth, rolling her eyes.

After a few moments of silence, Éponine says dryly, _“You realise I’m going to need a name, right? Which one?”_

“Joly,” Musichetta responds, sighing in exhaustion.

 _“Well, tell him that he’s going to have to leave without it if he doesn’t find it within the next two minutes,”_ Éponine snaps through the phone. As if on cue, Joly finally appears from under the bed, waving his camera in the air triumphantly.

“I found it!” he declares gleefully, jumping to his feet.

“Actually, we’re leaving right now,” Musichetta tells Éponine through the phone before hanging up, shoving her phone back into her tote bag as she gets to her feet, Bossuet following suit. Looking up at Joly and Bossuet, she questions, “Do we have everything?”

“Think so,” Bossuet replies, looking around.

“You sure? You packed the first aid kit, right?” Joly bites his lip anxiously as he grabs the handle of his suitcase, Bossuet and Musichetta doing the same.

Musichetta rolls her eyes once again. “ _Yes_ , honey, I packed the first aid kit. Can we fucking go now? We have ten minutes to get there.”

Bossuet’s eyes widen. “ _Ten minutes?!_ ” Without further ado, he runs over to the door and throws it open, about to dash out with his suitcase in hand before he slams into the doorframe, nearly toppling backwards from the force of his collision. Musichetta and Joly exchange a look before going over to help him out, the three of them leaving the apartment and going out into the sunshine.

* * *

“Hey, ’Ferre, what do you think of the hat? Yay or nay?”

Combeferre turns to give Courfeyrac an incredulous look as the shorter man grins and tips his cowboy hat while they all wait for Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta to make an appearance so they can all take off on their journey. Instead of responding, Combeferre reaches out and plucks the cowboy hat right off Courfeyrac’s head, tossing it into the back of the minivan.

“ _No_ ,” Combeferre replies as Courfeyrac sticks his tongue out at him. “You look ridiculous.”

Courfeyrac pouts and presses a hand to his heart. “Wow, ’Ferre, that _hurts_ ,” he tells him, a wounded look in the puppy eyes he gives Combeferre, who scoffs and rolls his eyes before returning his gaze to his phone, looking at the checklist he had made the night before to see if everything’s all set. It’s three minutes to seven when Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta come rushing up to them, dragging their enormous suitcases behind them and panting as they wipe the sweat off their brows.

“We’re here!” Bossuet announces happily before he practically collapses on top of his suitcase, which is standing upright before him, the upper half of his body dangling over the top.

“About damn time you fucks showed up!” Grantaire barks out, going over to Joly and Bossuet and pulling Bossuet to his feet. “Everyone else already got dibs on seats so you three are going to have to go with whatever seats are left in the van. Come on, we’ll be leaving soon.” Grantaire grabs Bossuet’s suitcase and lugs it over to the back of the van, where Jehan loads it into the back before doing the same with Joly and Musichetta’s luggage.

“Where are we even going?” Musichetta asks in exasperation, rearranging her sun hat and taking off her sunglasses as she watches Jehan shove her suitcase into the back of the van before going around the vehicle to claim shotgun. “We can’t just take off with no destination in mind.”

“Let’s wait until we get on the interstate to decide,” Combeferre suggests.

“Let’s go to Chicago!” Éponine hollers out. Everyone turns around to find her perched on the hood of her truck, Enjolras beside her leaning against the hood. When they all give her similar quizzical looks, she reasons, “Why not start with the closest giant city and go from there?”

“Not a bad idea,” Grantaire muses, rubbing the stubble on his chin in contemplation. “Chicago it is, then!”

Éponine grins and hops off the hood of the truck before she slides into the driver’s seat, beckoning Enjolras over to sit by her—it’s one of those trucks with a bench seat, just how Éponine likes it, and once she’s buckled herself in after placing her backpack at Enjolras’ feet, she watches as everyone else files into their respective vehicles, Courfeyrac claiming the middle seat of the minivan while Marius gets shotgun, Cosette climbing into the driver’s seat as the rest go over to the van.

The sharp sound of engines revving pierces through the silence hanging in the air, and it’s off they go.


	2. kick out the jams, kick up the soul

* * *

“Damn it, fuck all of you, you assholes have headphones for a fucking _reason_!”

They’ve been on the road for about half an hour and still have roughly five hours and twenty minutes to go to reach Chicago, Jehan acting as navigator while Grantaire drives the van, but _fuck_ , he can’t hear _anything_ Jehan is saying due to everyone behind them complaining about his choice in music, constantly attempting to talk over each other as they yell out suggestions that Grantaire has absolutely no intention of taking, thank you very much. Combeferre is the only one who’s remained quiet on the matter, having had the common sense to put on some headphones the moment Bahorel opened his mouth to complain about Grantaire’s music choices five minutes into the drive.

 _What kind of idiot doesn’t like Panic!?_ Grantaire thinks to himself, scoffing derisively as Feuilly, Bahorel, Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly argue at the top of their lungs over their clashing tastes in music. Musichetta’s yelling about how they should be listening to Coldplay while Bossuet’s insistent on turning on some country music, which, _no_ , there’s no fucking way Grantaire is ever going to turn on country music out of his own free will as long as he’s driving this goddamn van, and then there’s Joly, who just wants to listen to that one rock song he really likes that Grantaire can’t quite recall the title of, while Bahorel’s shouting something about Metallica as Feuilly demands that Grantaire change the music to the Beatles.

“Shut the _fuck_ up, all of you!” Grantaire yells over his shoulder. “You can argue all you want, but I’m not changing the music! Shut up!”

“This album can’t possibly go on forever,” Musichetta points out snippily in response. “Can we choose the music once it’s done?”

“If you five can all mutually agree on something by then, then yes,” Grantaire replies through clenched teeth, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. “Otherwise I’ll let Jehan choose the music. Until then, _shut the fuck up_ and put on some fucking headphones if you’re going to complain about the music.”

Jehan says nothing, simply looks pleased and smiles to himself as he looks at Google Maps on his phone before he looks back up to stare at the road ahead, nothing but interstate for miles. The intensity of the morning sunlight is muted by the tinted side windows, the air conditioner of the van on full blast as they speed down the interstate, surrounded by nothing but sprawling fields, the blue skies going on forever. Grantaire sighs and leans back in his seat as he drives, the others having finally shut up behind him and Jehan, and as they listen to “Girls/Girls/Boys”, Grantaire briefly turns his head to look at Jehan before turning his attention back to the road.

Jehan, ever so observant, doesn’t fail to pick up on how Grantaire seems as if he wants to say something before deciding against it, green eyes on the road ahead, so Jehan remarks, “I wonder how the others are holding up.”

“Well, we haven’t received any complaints yet, so I’ll assume they’re doing fine,” Grantaire says. Turning his head, his brow furrows upon seeing that Jehan has his camera out and is currently aiming it at Grantaire. “What—what are you doing?”

“Recording these first few hours of the road trip for _posterity_ ,” Jehan replies as if it’s obvious. There’s something about the way Jehan says the word ‘posterity’ that makes Grantaire resist the urge to crack up. “Managed to get a bit of you yelling at everyone. Also of Chetta flipping you off behind your back.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but honestly, does he ever expect anything less from the aggravating little spitfire that is Musichetta Chevalier?

After a few more minutes of recording, Jehan puts his camera back in his backpack, which is situated below the dash at his feet, and he puts his sunglasses back on before rolling the window all the way down, hooking his arm over the door and watching the world speeding past them, a blur of azure skies and grassy landscape, and he leans down to rest his head on the crook of his elbow, a contented little smile on his face as Panic! at the Disco plays in the background, and he wonders how the other five are doing at that very moment.

* * *

“Adrien Courfeyrac, I swear I’m going to revoke your aux cord privileges,” Cosette snaps as she stares straight ahead at the road, her lips pressed together in distaste at “All Star” blaring through the minivan after she made the mistake of letting Courfeyrac plug his phone into the car stereo. She can’t do shit about it now, considering how she’s driving, and Marius is fucking _asleep_ , having conked out ten minutes into the drive, so she can’t get him to reason with Courfeyrac about his… _questionable_ music taste.

Courfeyrac simply gives the blonde a shit-eating grin, which she glimpses through the rearview mirror, and in return, she shoots him the coldest death glare she can muster, big blue eyes narrowed at the curly-haired man. He leans forward to stick his head over her shoulder, still with that infuriating smirk on his face as she determinedly keeps her eyes on the road ahead, not particularly wishing to get into an accident. “Come on, Cosette, this song was in a Shrek movie,” Courfeyrac reminds her. “Any song that’s been in a Shrek movie is a good song. Now, on the contrary, any song that hasn’t been in a Shrek movie isn’t a good song.”

“I beg to differ!” Cosette cries out, indignant. “You’re just a Shrek freak.”

Courfeyrac plops back down into place, his legs up on the bench seat as he lounges about behind Marius and Cosette. “Maybe so.”

“Please just change the song,” Cosette pleads, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose to shield her eyes from the sun. “Anything but ‘All Star’.”

“So ‘Rasputin’ would be acceptable, then,” Courfeyrac quips.

“ _No_ ,” Cosette refutes, huffing.

“You’re no fun.” Nevertheless, Courfeyrac, thankfully, doesn’t turn on “Rasputin”, instead changing the song from “All Star” to some bouncy pop song Cosette doesn’t quite recognise. Her brow furrows upon hearing it, pursing her lips as she tries to put a name to the singer.

“What is this, Katy Perry?” she tries, glancing at the rearview mirror only to see the look on Courfeyrac’s face morph into indignation.

“I can’t believe you would insult pop icon Carly Rae Jepsen like this,” Courfeyrac says dramatically, pressing a hand to his heart and feigning a look of outrage. Cosette rolls her eyes before returning her gaze to the road as she bobs her head slightly to the music while Courfeyrac sings along behind her, his voice dreamy and unfocused.

“I want some satisfaction, take me to the stars…”

There are about five hours and ten minutes to go, and from what Courfeyrac tells Cosette, the next rest stop isn’t for another couple of hours, which is when they’ll switch places so he can drive unless Marius wakes up by then, in which case he’ll take the wheel instead of Courfeyrac until the rest stop after that. Courfeyrac grows subdued as Cosette drives, the only sound in the car being Carly Rae Jepsen’s voice and Courfeyrac quietly humming along, barely audible.

Cosette can’t help but smile to herself as she gazes straight at the road ahead, occasionally stealing glances at the fields they’re racing by, glimpsing small herds of cows here occasionally here and there amidst the grassy plains, morning sun beating down upon them. Cosette rolls down a window just halfway, feeling the wind in her hair and sighing contentedly at the feeling as she hears the sound of a bag of what she assumes to be some form of Cheetos, judging from the smell that soon hits her nose, crinkling behind her, soon followed by the sound of Courfeyrac crunching on something. A glance in the rearview mirror confirms her suspicions—Courfeyrac’s opened a party-size bag of Cheetos puffs, bright orange Cheetos dust clinging to his fingers as he happily shovels puffs into his mouth, humming along to the music.

Cosette reaches behind her. “May I have some?”

Courfeyrac dutifully sticks the opening of the bag towards her and she grabs a few Cheetos puffs, bringing her hand to her mouth and sticking a Cheetos puff in her mouth as she keeps her other hand on the wheel, catching herself humming along to Carrie Underwood as the taste of Cheetos fills her mouth.

After some time, Courfeyrac pokes his head over Cosette’s shoulder once again, glancing over at a still-sleeping Marius. The freckled-face man’s head is lolling back against the window, ginger quiff in disarray and some drool dribbling out of a corner of his mouth, and Courfeyrac glances back over his shoulder at the headphones sticking out of his backpack, a slow grin stretching across his face. Turning back to Cosette, he whispers in her ear, “Should we wake him up?”

Cosette scrunches up her face and steals a glance at her slumbering boyfriend, a contemplative look crossing her face. “How?”

Courfeyrac reaches over to pull out his headphones and dangle them in Cosette’s face, an impish smirk on his face as he wiggles his eyebrows. “Shall we?”

Cosette snorts—contrary to popular belief, she doesn’t have a laugh that would be deemed conventionally pretty, instead snorting whenever she laughs, a trait she inherited from her mother—and nods. Sure, she loves Marius more than anything, but she’s always liked pranking his clueless ass. “Go for it.”

Courfeyrac pulls the aux cord out of his phone before connecting the phone to his headphones, managing to carefully slip it over Marius’ ears without waking him as Cosette drives on. Turning back to Cosette, Courfeyrac questions, “What song should I play?”

Cosette shrugs. “Your pick.”

Courfeyrac soon stumbles across a song that he deems perfect for the situation and, once he makes sure the volume is at its highest, he immediately plays it and holds his breath in anticipation.

Almost instantly, Marius jolts awake with a yelp—had he not been contained to his seat with a seatbelt, he probably would have fallen out of his seat. Pulling the headphones off as quickly as humanly possible, he frantically looks around through wild, wide green eyes as Cosette stifles a laugh, Marius eventually zeroing in on Courfeyrac, who’s curled up in the bench seat and laughing his ass off. His face turning scarlet, Marius tosses the headphones at Courfeyrac’s head and all but screeches, “Don’t _do_ that!”

If anything, Courfeyrac just laughs even harder, curling into himself and clutching his stomach as Marius glares at him with as much intensity as he can muster—which, honestly, isn’t much, considering how Marius is considered by most to be the human embodiment of a puppy who must be protected. Pouting, Marius turns to look at Cosette, who’s trying her best and failing to stifle her giggles, some snorts slipping past her lips. “It’s not funny,” Marius tries to say, his cheeks burning.

Cosette simply smiles, her eyes still on the road. “It’s kind of funny.”

“No, it isn’t,” Marius contradicts petulantly, crossing his arms across his chest and slouching down in his seat as Courfeyrac straightens up once again to lean forward between the pair up front.

“Nah, it really is,” Courfeyrac tells him, still sniggering.

Cosette grins in amusement. “Jesus, what song did you even play?”

Before Courfeyrac can respond, they hear Marius mumbling, “It was ‘All Star’.”

* * *

The morning sun is warm as it filters in through the windows, bathing them in golden light. Enjolras stares out the open window, his arm hooked over the car door, drumming his fingers on the outside of the truck, the summer breeze rushing in through the open window and making his golden curls fly gently in the wind. Éponine’s singing along to My Chemical Romance as she drives, a grin playing at her lips, her sunglasses propped up on her head and pushing her hair off her face, and Enjolras is bobbing his head slightly to the music as Éponine sings along, tapping on the steering wheel to the beat.

“Tell the truth and God will save you! Gravity don’t mean too much to me! I’m who I’ve got to be! These pigs are after me, after you…”

Enjolras takes his phone out on a whim to prop it up on the dashboard and film them both, Éponine not seeming to notice as he does so, continuing to sing along and tapping on the steering wheel in time to the music as Enjolras records them both, for the memories, he thinks. After a couple minutes of recording, Éponine takes notice, stealing a glance at him and turning her head to look at him with an incredulous smile on her face as her eyes meet his.

“What are you doing?” She stops singing along to ask him this, cocking her head slightly and scrunching up her face at him before she returns her gaze to the road.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Enjolras replies in complete earnest. Éponine reaches over to lightly shove him, chuckling.

“Ass.” It’s meant to be teasing, just lightly poking fun at him, and he can’t help but grin at the way she says it.

After some time, Enjolras asks, “So what are you planning on doing once we get to Chicago?”

Éponine shrugs. “I’m thinking of visiting the Skydeck at the Sears Tower. Take some pictures, make it look like I’m falling…” She laughs to herself at the next thought that crosses her mind, saying, “I’d send the pictures to my siblings. Just to fuck with them. I wonder how they’re doing…” She trails off, biting her lip. After a pause, she looks over at Enjolras for a split second before returning her gaze to the road. “What are _you_ planning on doing there?”

“Adler Planetarium,” Enjolras replies.

Éponine grins. “Noice.”

The song changes and Éponine begins to sing again, Enjolras’ phone still propped up on the dash and recording them both as he stares out the open window at the rolling plains rushing past them, the wind in his hair and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end as he drums on the outside of the car door to the beat, the sun warming them as it touches them. They’re ahead of the others, everyone else trusting Éponine to go the right way, and it’s pleasant, Enjolras thinks to himself, just riding in that truck as they speed past sprawling fields under the wild, wild skies, pearly white clouds dotting the skyline as the morning sun streams in through the windows.

“Man, I’m never the same, we were shotgun lovers, I’m a shotgun running away…”

The song playing is jubilant, glorious, an anthem for the summer, and Enjolras catches himself humming along as Éponine sings, tapping her foot in time to the music as she drives. They still have roughly five hours to go, and if Enjolras is calculating things correctly, they’ll be arriving in Chicago around one o’clock in the afternoon. The next rest stop isn’t for another couple of hours, so he contents himself to just sit there and relax for once in his life as he listens to the music blaring from the stereo and Éponine singing her heart out, carefree and exultant.

“How have things been going in your life?” Éponine questions after some time, having stopped singing along to ask Enjolras that question. He turns his head to look at her, brow furrowed.

“What do you mean?” he asks, biting his lip.

“You know, school, family, relationships…” Éponine waves one hand around as if to emphasise her point, her other hand still firmly on the steering wheel. “Got any datemates none of the rest of us know about?”

“No,” Enjolras replies, feeling his cheeks flush pink. “I’ve never been in a relationship, actually. Just blind dates here and there that Courf forces me to go on.”

“Seriously? You’ve _never_ been in a relationship?” The look on Éponine’s face is sceptical, and rightly so—there’s just no way a guy that fine has never been in a relationship before. “I call bullshit.”

“No, I really haven’t,” Enjolras asserts, giving her a look. “I’ve had some flings here and there, but they’ve never meant anything to me. I just needed the relief, I was never actually sexually attracted to the people I slept with.” He grimaces as he stares out the open window once again, the wind in his face. “I’ve never really been sexually attracted to anyone.” After a while, he quietly adds as an afterthought, “Except, I think, when I had that crush on Feuilly back when we were eighteen.”

“You’ve never looked at someone and thought, ‘I want to get in their pants’?” Éponine enquires, curious.

“Just from looking at them?” Enjolras lets out a derisive snort at the idea of it, shaking his head. “No. I’m demi, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Éponine’s cheeks flush red at the fact that she forgot. She really needs to work on remembering things better, especially when it comes to her close friends. “You’re pan too, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” Enjolras confirms, shifting slightly in his seat. “Aren’t we going to be in New York for the pride parade?”

“God, I hope so, it’d be a shame if I brought my bi flag along for nothing.” Éponine hums along to the music as she drives on, Enjolras sitting there beside her and staring out the window, Brandon Flowers’ voice blaring from the stereo being the primary source of sound in the little pickup truck. Enjolras hears Éponine softly singing along to the music at some point, stealing a sideways glance at the young woman as she taps on the steering wheel and sings along, calmer, more subdued than her renditions of the previous songs.

“He doesn’t look a thing like Jesus, but he talks like a gentleman, like you imagined when you were young…”

It’s nice, Enjolras thinks, as he leans to his side, his arm still hooked over the car door and his fingers absently drumming on the metal, not noticing how he’s tapping on the car door in time to the music as the wind whips in his face. The rolling plains and azure-blue skies are a blur as the truck speeds down the interstate, racing past the world, ahead of the other two vehicles and acting as leader to the others.

He steals a glance at Éponine, a corner of his mouth turning up in the slightest smile at the sight of how much she seems to be enjoying herself, tapping on the wheel and singing along to The Killers, not a care in the world. It’s wildly different from how she used to be, back when he first met her, when she was hopelessly infatuated with Marius, and to some extent, Cosette as well, dating an abusive asshole in her own attempt to cope with it before she had the sense to dump him at the end of the year, putting up a huge fight to the point where a few of the others had to get involved, Enjolras included. He kind of likes seeing Éponine so happy—he’s never been the best at consoling people when they’re upset, it’s something he needs to get better at.

As the world races past, Enjolras loses himself to the sound of Éponine singing, wind rushing in his face as he gazes out the window, and for once, he forgets about everything else. Maybe he’ll take the others up on their frequent suggestions to him and actually live in the moment.

* * *

Two hours later, they’re all gathered at the rest stop, the three vehicles parked in the parking space provided; Éponine, Grantaire, and Bahorel have disappeared into the convenience store to splurge on snacks, enough to last them the rest of the drive, and Jehan is off somewhere after he told them all that he’ll book them rooms at a hotel while the others wait around in the parking lot. Courfeyrac is wearing his cowboy hat once again, despite Combeferre’s visible opposition, under the excuse that it’s to shield his face from the sun, which is beating down mercilessly upon them. The two of them are leaning against the side of the van, side by side, while Cosette and Musichetta are perched on the hood of Éponine’s truck, sharing the party-size bag of Cheetos puffs Courfeyrac had opened two hours prior and finishing whatever’s left of it. The temperature is somewhere in the 70’s, the sweltering heat sending beads of sweat running down their exposed skin and dampening their clothes; Combeferre watches in amusement as Courfeyrac takes off his cowboy hat and vigorously fans himself with it, sighing dramatically.

“It’s so goddamn _hot_ ,” he bemoans, his deep brown curls slightly limp, a result of a combination of hat hair and sweat.

“It’s summer, what did you think it was going to be?” Combeferre asks. It’s a rhetorical question, meant to poke fun at Courfeyrac, and the shorter man doesn’t fail to pick up on that fact, shooting Combeferre a pouty glare that only succeeds in making him laugh. Enjolras watches them both with mild interest, absent-mindedly sticking his hand into a packet of Skittles Bossuet gave him a few minutes prior to stick a few of the little suckers into his mouth, chewing on them.

Jehan soon comes back with a delighted smile on his face, his cheeks reddened from the heat, and Cosette perks up, asking, “Did you get us rooms?”

“Yeah, I did!” Jehan replies cheerfully, going over to take some Cheetos puffs from the blonde and Musichetta. “It’s all set. How long will we be staying in Chicago?”

“A day and a half, maybe?” Joly suggests. “We could leave for our next stop the morning after tomorrow.”

“What are we going to be doing in Chicago, though?” Bossuet asks, screwing up his face in contemplation.

“Why don’t we get settled in first once we get there and then decide afterwards?” Combeferre prompts. “Shouldn’t take long.”

“Yeah, let’s go with that!” Feuilly agrees. “Where do you guys want to go afterwards?”

“Mammoth Cave National Park!” Musichetta hollers out, startling the shit out of all of them and making them jump as they turn to look at her. She remains unfazed, reiterating, “Let’s go to Mammoth Cave. I looked it up, it seems really nice. Maybe we could go to Cleveland after?”

“It’ll be fun!” Cosette chimes in, flashing them all a smile.

“I suppose it would,” Enjolras says, finally contributing to the conversation. “Mammoth Cave National Park, Cleveland, and then we could go to Niagara Falls. What do you think?”

Marius smiles from ear to ear, bringing out the green of his eyes as he enthusiastically claps his hands together. “That’s perfect!”

“Lit,” Musichetta comments in approval, making Bossuet laugh at her usage of the word as Joly stifles a giggle.

Éponine, Grantaire, and Bahorel return shortly with reusable bags they had brought along at the beginning of the trip absolutely bursting with junk food, soda and chips and God knows what else taking up all the space in said bags. “Whatcha guys talking about?” Éponine asks brightly as she dumps a few of the bags into the back of the minivan.

“What do you guys think about going to Mammoth Cave National Park after Chicago?” Jehan questions, fixing his gaze on Grantaire. “We’re thinking of going to Cleveland afterwards, and then Niagara Falls.”

“I’m all for it,” Éponine responds, shrugging her shoulders and pulling one of the straps of her Danger Days tank top back up her shoulder after it slid loose before tugging down her ripped jean shorts after it rides up her thigh a bit too high. “Where should we—”

“Okay, that’s enough planning in advance,” Grantaire interjects. “This trip is all about _spontaneity_ , isn’t it? New rule: no deciding more than three destinations at a time.”

“I second that,” Bahorel agrees.

After a while, Grantaire calls out, “Okay, should we get going? Any last minute bathroom breaks? We won’t be making any more stops after this, so if you need to use the bathroom, go now!”

“What if we don’t need to use the bathroom now but have to later?” Musichetta points out tartly.

“That sounds like a you problem,” Grantaire retorts. “If you need to piss while we’re on the road, we’ll just have to pull over.”

Musichetta rolls her eyes and slides off the hood of the truck before marching off to the bathroom, shortly followed by Marius, Bossuet, and Cosette while the others wait in the parking lot, Éponine jumping up onto the hood of her truck once Cosette and Musichetta are out of sight and wincing as she pulls her knees to her chest.

“My ass is on fire,” she deadpans when Enjolras gives her an odd look, having seen her flinch.

“Get down from there, then,” Enjolras replies, cocking his head as his blue eyes stare straight into her brown, one eyebrow raised. It’s a perfectly reasonable solution, but Éponine just sticks her tongue out at him.

“Hell no,” she declines brusquely.

“It’s for the _aesthetic_ , Enjolras, get a clue,” Courfeyrac chimes in, grinning when Combeferre elbows him for that. Éponine rolls her eyes at Courfeyrac’s commentary as Cosette returns from the bathroom, claiming shotgun in the minivan. Courfeyrac takes that as his cue to climb back into the middle seat of the minivan, and he’s all too surprised when Combeferre joins him, giving the bespectacled man a quizzical look.

“I figured I’ll just ride with you three for the rest of the drive,” Combeferre reasons upon seeing the look on Courfeyrac’s face. “I don’t think I’d be able to deal with R and the others arguing for another three hours. Scoot?”

“Damn, I was hoping to get a nap in,” Courfeyrac grumbles as he scoots over to allow Combeferre some space. Combeferre just rolls his eyes, pointing to the backseat.

“It’s all yours if you want it,” he tells Courfeyrac dryly.

Courfeyrac’s brow furrows as he juts out his bottom lip, indignant. “Why do _I_ get the backseat?! It’s way smaller!”

“ _You’re_ way smaller,” Combeferre points out. Courfeyrac’s mouth falls open in outrage.

“Don’t bring my height into this!” he cries out crossly, shoving Combeferre as Cosette watches them from the shotgun seat in amusement. “It’s not my fault I’m only five foot seven, shut up!” Nevertheless, he begrudgingly climbs into the backseat anyway, glowering at Combeferre the entire time as the bespectacled man simply gives him a gracious smile, Cosette struggling to stifle her giggles as she watches the scene unfold before her eyes.

“Thank you,” Combeferre tells him, sincere, his lips stretched into a grateful little smile.

“You don’t mean that,” Courfeyrac snaps back, lying on his side and curling into himself in the backseat.

“No, really.” Combeferre leans over the top of the middle seat, reaching out to pat Courfeyrac’s thigh and chuckling softly at the sight of how Courfeyrac sticks out his bottom lip in a petulant pout. “Thanks.”

Éponine, still perched on the hood of her truck, watches Courfeyrac and Combeferre from the outside, laughing to herself as she reaches over and taps Enjolras on the shoulder. When he turns around, looking at her expectantly, she says to him under her breath, “Hey, bet you fifty bucks they’ll be fucking by the end of this road trip.”

Enjolras makes a face, resolutely shaking his head. “I’d rather not bet on the outcome of my roommates’ relationship to one another, thanks.”

Éponine rolls her eyes, lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like “Killjoy!” as Bossuet and Musichetta return from the bathroom within two minutes of each other, leaving them all waiting for Marius. Grantaire clicks his tongue as he looks in the distance at the bathrooms, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand, before he makes his way over to the window of the shotgun seat in the minivan, tapping on it.

“I take it Marius’ll be driving?” Grantaire questions when Cosette rolls the window down, eyebrows raised.

“Yep,” Cosette replies, popping the ‘p’. “Where is he?”

As if on cue, Marius comes running back to them, panting as he pauses in front of the minivan to catch his breath, hands on his knees. “Sorry,” he pants, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath, remarking, “Public bathrooms are so unsanitary.”

Joly shudders at the thought of it, nodding in agreement. “All the health risks…”

“Time to go!” Grantaire shouts out, turning to Jehan, Bossuet, Musichetta, Joly, Bahorel, and Feuilly. “So which one of you guys will drive?”

Joly volunteers. “Why not?”

Éponine watches as the seven of them file into the van while Marius climbs into the driver’s seat of the minivan, looking at Enjolras. “Shall we?”

He shrugs and she takes that as her cue to slide off the hood, sauntering over to claim shotgun as Enjolras gets into the driver’s seat. Pulling her legs up to sit cross-legged beside him, Éponine reaches down into the reusable bag below the dash for a packet of Starburst, popping one of the pink ones into her mouth and happily chewing away at it while Enjolras starts the truck. It takes a total of three minutes for all three vehicles to be on the road once again, racing down the interstate, and Éponine watches it all from the passenger seat, delighted by her new perspective.

She turns on some music, starts singing along to Elle King after she finishes her packet of Starburst, leaving the yellow ones to give to Marius later—she’s always found it weird how he loves the most hated Starburst flavour, but hey, at least she has someone to pawn the yellow ones off to. Rolling down the window all the way, she rests her elbow on the car door, sticking her hand into a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, her voice slightly thick from her mouthful of Cheetos as she sings along to the music.

“Well, they say I’m too loud for this town, so I lit a match and burned it down! What do you want from me? I’m not America’s sweetheart, but you love me anyway!”

When the music switches to Kelly Clarkson, Éponine hums along to “My Life Would Suck Without You” as she sticks the bag of Cheetos out to Enjolras. “Want some?” she offers, shaking it slightly.

Enjolras looks at her for a split second with a single raised eyebrow before he remembers to keep his eyes on the road, reaching into the bag with his right hand and swiping a few Cheetos. He brings them to his mouth and makes a slight face as he bites down on the Cheetos, pressing his lips together. “Fuck, that’s hot…”

Éponine laughs and goes back to looking out the window, a small smile of amusement playing at her lips as the wind blows her hair back, sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose. “God, I fucking love watching you white people eat spicy food.”

“You seem to forget that you’re part white yourself,” Enjolras responds dryly, rolling his eyes as Éponine chucks a Cheeto at him and narrowly misses.

“ _Part_ ,” Éponine points out. “I’m proud of my Moroccan heritage, pretty boy. And at least I have a higher spice tolerance than you.”

“I can tolerate spice just as well as you do,” Enjolras contradicts, stubborn. “Give it to me.”

“Title of your sex tape,” Éponine quips, turning her head and sniggering at how Enjolras’ cheeks flame scarlet. Nevertheless, she sticks out the bag towards him anyway, watching intently as he swipes some more Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and obstinately sticks them into his mouth, turning his head briefly to give her a look before he returns his gaze back to the road, Éponine watching in mild amusement as Enjolras’ face contorts in slight discomfort, biting down on his lip while chewing on the Cheetos.

“Need some water over there?” Éponine taunts, grinning teasingly and cackling when Enjolras glares at her.

“ _No_ ,” he replies tenaciously, blue eyes boring into her before he huffs and looks back at the road. Éponine remains unfazed, looking back out the window and feeling the rush of the wind in her face and in her hair as she happily eats her Cheetos, bobbing her head along to the music and humming softly.

They sit there in comfortable silence for several more minutes, the stillness only being broken by the music blaring from the stereo and Éponine humming along, the faint sound of her crunching on Cheetos barely able to be heard as Enjolras drives on. After a while, Enjolras speaks again.

“How do you think the others are holding up?” he asks, stealing a sideways glance at Éponine.

“Hmmmm, I’m willing to bet Joly, Bossuet, and R are probably driving each other nuts,” Éponine responds airily, tossing a Cheeto into the air and catching it in her mouth just to see if she can. “As are ’Ferre and Courf.” As she tosses another Cheeto into her mouth, she remarks, “Do you think R and Jehan have the hots for each other?”

“Don’t really pay attention to that kind of thing,” Enjolras replies, feigning indifference to get her off his back.

“Ugh, you’re so fucking boring.” Éponine chucks another Cheeto at him, this time hitting him in the head, and she erupts in a fit of giggles at the sight of how some bright red Cheetos dust rubs off on Enjolras’ golden curls, reaching over to pluck the Cheeto she had tossed at him off his shoulder and shoving it into her mouth as Enjolras watches with a strange look in his blue eyes, brow furrowed once again.

“That’s disgusting.”

Éponine punches him in the shoulder. “Fuck off.”

* * *

“You’re the one I want, you’re the one I need; baby, if I was a king, you would be my queen! You’re the rock in my roll, you’re good for my soul, it’s true… I’m head over boots for you!”

Grantaire is barely able to resist the urge to fucking _scream_ as Bossuet sings along extremely off-key to the stupid country music he had been whining about wanting to play at the beginning of the drive, pressing his lips together in disgust as Bossuet and Musichetta sing along, the two of them serenading Joly. Musichetta’s called shotgun while Bossuet is in the seat directly behind her and Joly, leaning forward between the two seats to happily chat with them. Grantaire’s sitting in a window seat behind Bossuet with Jehan, fuming at how his music choices were overruled when they all voted the moment they started driving again.

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters to himself, Jehan patting him sympathetically on the back.

Musichetta turns around to give Grantaire a look that’s a cross between smug and scornful. “‘You assholes have headphones for a fucking _reason_ ,’” she mimics mockingly in what is, quite frankly, a very poor imitation of Grantaire, if he does say so himself.

“Fuck you,” Grantaire bites back. Not his best, he knows, but he can’t come up with anything else at the moment in his little hissy fit.

“I’m good, thanks,” Musichetta replies, gesturing to Joly and Bossuet. “These two do a spectacular job.”

Grantaire makes a face, revolted. “Gross. I didn’t need to know that, thank you very much.”

“You started it,” Musichetta retorts before she turns back to look ahead at the road, singing along to the song that’s now playing. Grantaire supposes he can tolerate Rascal Flatts.

Bahorel and Feuilly are both sound asleep in the back, having fallen asleep fifteen minutes in, and since Combeferre’s opted to join Marius, Cosette, and Courfeyrac in the minivan for the rest of the drive to Chicago, they both got rows to themselves, sleeping sideways, Bahorel’s legs extending all the way to the single seat across the aisle from his row. Jehan’s humming along to his own music and Grantaire finds solace in that, trying to tune out Bossuet and Musichetta’s horrendous singing. The song’s changed once again to that one rock song Joly really likes and of course Bossuet and Musichetta are screeching along to it, serenading their darling hypochondriac boyfriend once again.

“Doctor, doctor, gimme the news, I got a bad case of loving you! No pill’s gonna cure my ill, I got a bad case of loving you…”

Grantaire presses his lips together so tightly that he feels like they might fuse together as he determinedly stares out the window, tuning out everything but Jehan’s sweet humming to whatever the fuck it is he’s listening to. Jehan seems to sense Grantaire’s irritation and takes one earbud out, giving the brunet a curious look.

“You okay there?” he asks, brow furrowed in concern.

“These assholes are driving me up the fucking wall,” Grantaire mutters, clenching his fists.

Jehan offers Grantaire the one earbud he had taken out. “Can’t possibly be as bad as what they’re listening to right now,” he reasons when Grantaire gives him a questioning look.

After contemplating it for several moments, Grantaire takes the earbud Jehan offers him and tentatively sticks it in his ear, green eyes widening in pleasant surprise at what Jehan’s listening to. “Troye Sivan?” he questions in amazement. Before this, he never thought that Jehan Prouvaire out of all people would be into Troye Sivan.

Jehan smiles rather sheepishly. “What can I say? He’s got some great music.” After a pause, he adds as an afterthought, “Not bad to look at either.”

“Okay, calm down, you horny monster,” Grantaire jokes, evoking a laugh from the ginger.

After a while in which they just sit in comfortable silence together and listen to Troye Sivan, Jehan hesitantly places a hand on Grantaire’s knee, just barely touching it. “Feel better now?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire replies quietly, a ghost of a grateful smile on his face as he meets Jehan’s eyes, green meeting blue, and they just stay like that for several moments, holding each other’s gaze as Troye Sivan whispers in their ear, hypnotic and soothing. Eventually, Grantaire snaps out of it, saying rather gruffly, “Thanks.”

Jehan smiles, all teeth, bringing out the blue in his eyes. “Anytime.”

Grantaire looks down into his lap and grins goofily to himself before he reaches down to grab a giant bag of Cool Ranch Doritos from one of the reusable bags all the junk food they bought at the rest stop earlier is in, opening it and offering some to Jehan, who gladly swipes a few nachos out of the bag and brings them to his mouth before Grantaire does the same.

Grantaire scowls at how all the noise from crunching Doritos in his mouth drowns out the music, saying to Jehan, “Don’t you hate it when you’re eating something and you can’t hear anything else?”

“It does get irritating sometimes, yeah,” Jehan replies, because only Jehan wouldn’t be too bothered by that fact. Or maybe Grantaire’s just easily annoyed. Thinking about it now, the brunet realises it’s probably the latter. “I’m pretty used to it at this point. Hard to believe you aren’t.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Grantaire rebuts, but the way he says it makes it sound like it’s meant to be playful, and Jehan knows he doesn’t really mean it.

Bossuet and Musichetta eventually fall asleep after a full hour of singing along to the worst music Grantaire can think of, leaving only Joly, Jehan, and Grantaire himself awake, and Joly’s oblivious to how Jehan settles his head on Grantaire’s shoulder as they drive on, listening to Troye Sivan and ignoring the world around them.

_“Long nights, daydreams, sugar and smoke rings, I’ve been a fool, but strawberries and cigarettes always taste like you…”_

* * *

“Hey, Courf, could you pass the pretzels?”

Combeferre turns around to look at Courfeyrac, who’s been awake for about half an hour now after about two hours of blissful silence, singing along to Taylor Swift and eating out of a bag of Chex Mix and generally being a pain in Combeferre’s ass from how obnoxious he’s being. Earlier, upon waking up, Courfeyrac declared himself the guardian of the snacks and insists that everyone ask permission first before taking snacks out of the bags.

Courfeyrac pretends to inspect his nails as he chews on Chex, asking flippantly, “What kind?”

“Salted caramel,” Combeferre responds.

That catches Courfeyrac’s attention. “What did you just say?”

Combeferre’s brow furrows in confusion, saying, “I said salted c—”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Courfeyrac waves his hand around, sitting upright to rest his chin on the top of the middle seat backrest as he fixes Combeferre with a strange look. “Say carmel.”

Combeferre blinks. “Caramel.”

Courfeyrac’s mouth opens just slightly in a tiny ‘O’. “It’s not caramel, it’s carmel.”

Combeferre straightens up as well, brow furrowed as his eyes bore into Courfeyrac’s, the two of them seeming to try to stare each other down as Combeferre contradicts slowly, “I’m pretty sure it’s caramel.”

“No, carmel!” Courfeyrac insists, stubborn.

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says patiently, his words slow as if he’s explaining it to an angry toddler, “Carmel is the name of a city. In California.”

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about…” Courfeyrac lets out a huffy sigh, searching for the right words. “It’s… isn’t it some sort of confectionary? Salted carmel, like you said.”

“That’s _caramel_ ,” Combeferre corrects him.

“That’s what I’m _saying_!” Courfeyrac bursts out insistently. “Carmel!”

Combeferre sighs and brings his hand to his temple, rubbing circles into it with his finger. God, Courfeyrac’s really testing his patience today, isn’t he? “Jesus Christ…”

“Just give him the pretzels, Courf,” Marius calls over his shoulder, glancing at the curly-haired man through the rearview mirror and smiling at how Courfeyrac juts out his bottom lip in protest.

“He’s pronouncing it wrong, though,” Courfeyrac responds, as though that’s a valid reason to deny someone their pretzels. Combeferre snorts at the absurdity of it.

Cosette sighs, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “Just give him the pretzels, we haven’t had anything to eat since this morning.”

Courfeyrac sticks his tongue out at Cosette behind her back, making a face at her. Even still, he fishes a packet of the pretzels Combeferre asked for out of one of the reusable bags containing all the junk they bought from the rest stop convenience store, handing the pretzels to Combeferre, who accepts it with a grateful smile. Courfeyrac smiles back, scrunching up his whole face at Combeferre and making the bespectacled man laugh.

After some time, Courfeyrac begins to grow antsy, unable to sit still for more than two minutes at a time as he alternates between staring out the window at the passing cars and looking straight ahead, watching Marius and Cosette singing along to Taylor Swift—typical—and Combeferre reading something off his Kindle as he leisurely eats pretzels. Courfeyrac catches himself humming along to the music before he stops himself, shaking his head to snap himself out of it before he rests his chin on the middle seat backrest once again, reading over Combeferre’s shoulder.

After some time, Combeferre takes notice of Courfeyrac breathing down his neck; his brow knits in perplexity as he turns his head to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes. “Can I help you?”

“Whatcha reading?” Courfeyrac asks in lieu of an actual answer to Combeferre’s deadpan question, quirking an eyebrow.

“ _The Great Gatsby_ ,” Combeferre responds, not saying anything else as he goes back to reading and completely ignoring Courfeyrac.

Huffing and falling back in his seat, Courfeyrac figures he might as well get some more sleep in before they arrive in the city, curling up in the backseat and closing his eyes, letting the rocking of the car lull him to sleep. It’s comforting, in a way—the feeling of the car speeding down the interstate combined with the sound of Marius and Cosette singing along to “New Romantics” turns out to be a decent, effective way of making Courfeyrac fall asleep, and before he realises it, he’s conked out completely, soft snores sounding from the backseat.

All too soon, though, he’s being shaken awake by someone he assumes to be Combeferre, considering how Marius and Cosette are occupying the front seats and aren’t within arm’s reach. Courfeyrac’s dark eyes blink open as he groans in irritation—it feels as if he’s only been sleeping for one second, and he props himself up on his elbows. “What is it?”

Combeferre gestures out the window with a wide smile on his face and Courfeyrac’s slightly blurry gaze drifts to what Combeferre’s pointing at.

It’s a sign. A literal sign.

_Welcome to Chicago._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this ended up being way longer than i originally intended. oops. i really should learn how to be more consistent about chapter length.
> 
> hope you enjoyed it, regardless!! let me know what you think!


	3. gonna want to stay forever and a day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, this took only a million years to update, i'm so so so sorry for the wait!! here's an extra long chapter to hopefully make up for it ^_^ ~~that may also be because i'm super inconsistent about chapter length sfgaskhjfgshkdfgaskdjgfjasdgf~~

* * *

“Éponine. Éponine!”

Éponine wakes up with a loud moan of annoyance, deep brown eyes blinking open and narrowing when they settle on Enjolras, who she infers was the one to shake her awake, being the one other person present in the truck. “What the fuck is it?” she whines, rubbing at her eyes with her fists.

Enjolras gestures ahead and Éponine follows his gaze, scowling when all she sees is a sign that says “Welcome to Chicago” and the city skyline in the distance.

“So?” she asks, completely uninterested.

“I thought you’d want to be awake for when we first enter the city,” Enjolras replies evenly, trying not to look so visibly insulted at her lack of enthusiasm.

“Well, you thought wrong!” Éponine barks out, displeased by the unwelcome interruption to her nap. “I’m going back to sleep!”

She’s just about to rest her head on the crook of her elbow once again, her elbow resting on the car door and slightly sticking out the open window, when Enjolras grabs her other arm and pulls her upright despite her protests. When she turns her head to shoot him a glare, he gives her a look.

“There’s no point in going back to sleep, ’Ponine,” Enjolras tells her adamantly. “The hotel’s fifteen minutes away.”

Éponine raises her eyebrow at the nickname. “’Ponine?” she repeats, an unreadable expression on her face.

Enjolras’ cheeks turn red when he realises his slip as he mumbles, “I mean, if you—if you don’t like it, I can just stick with calling you Éponine.”

“Nah, I kind of like it,” Éponine replies, rather flippant. “Makes you seem like less of a marble statue and more of an actual human being.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, remarking sarcastically, “Wow, that was almost a compliment.”

The irritated scowl on Éponine’s face is quick to morph into a mischievous grin at Enjolras’ words. “What can I say? I’m excellent at them.”

Enjolras scoffs, rolling his eyes once again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Well, fuck you too,” Éponine retorts, reaching over to smack him in the arm before she changes the music, unplugging his phone to replace it with her own. “Jesus fuck, what kind of trash did you listen to while I was asleep?”

“My taste in music is not _trash_ ,” Enjolras says a bit too sharply, stung by her words. There’s no fucking way he’ll ever admit that he is, though. “Fuck you.”

Éponine turns her head to look him up and down with a little too much interest, eyes raking over his body with a little smirk on her face, almost lecherous, before she (far too candidly, in Enjolras’ opinion) remarks in a lazy, condescending drawl, “Eh, maybe when you don’t have that pole so far up your ass. You’re hot, I’d definitely hit that.”

Enjolras’ cheeks flame scarlet at Éponine’s utter _audacity_ , his mouth slightly hanging open, indignant as he struggles to get a few coherent words out, spluttering, “Why—you little—how _dare_ you—fucking _hell_ , Éponine— _what_ —”

Éponine just smirks even more in pure satisfaction at having successfully gotten under his skin before she swings her legs up onto the seat, sitting with them folded sideways underneath her as she fishes out a packet of Cheez-Its out of the reusable bag below the dash and tears it open. She tosses a few into her mouth and loudly crunches on them, leading Enjolras to wonder if she’s being obnoxious on purpose just to get on his nerves even more. He clenches his jaw and presses his lips together tightly as he determinedly stares straight ahead at the road, the van having taken the lead and the minivan just behind the truck.

The next fifteen minutes are mostly uneventful, with Enjolras staunchly trying to ignore how Éponine’s moved on from crunching Cheez-Its to crunching Spicy Nacho Doritos, her right elbow slightly sticking out of the open window on her side as the wind rushes against their bare skin. The windy city, indeed. She’s humming along to the music too, humming along to The 1975 as she crunches down on tortilla chips, bobbing her head to the beat and staring out the window as they drive into the city, buildings steadily spiralling upwards and pedestrians on the pavements walking past. It’s a pleasant sight, driving into the big city and being able to see the gradual change from suburbia to skyscrapers.

Enjolras drives behind the van as the three vehicles descend into the parking space underground, right below the hotel that looks way too fancy for their lot but Éponine isn’t going to question it, and once they’ve found parking spots and stepped out to gather in a little group as Combeferre and Enjolras unload the luggage, Grantaire calls out, “Do we have everyone here?”

Joly steps up to stand beside Grantaire, doing a headcount. “I think everyone’s here, yeah.”

“Do we have all our luggage?” Grantaire shouts just as Combeferre and Enjolras emerge with the last of the suitcases, their own.

“Yes, we do!” Enjolras yells back. “No need to shout!”

Ignoring Enjolras, Grantaire calls out, “Okay, let’s get going, Jehan’s going to check us all in!”

Éponine goes over to walk with Grantaire, dragging her suitcases behind her as they all approach the elevators that’ll take them up to the lobby, and as they’re waiting together in front of the elevators, Grantaire questions with a little shit-eating grin on his face, “So how was it being stuck in a truck with Enjy for three hours straight?”

“I slept most of the way while he was driving,” Éponine replies. “Fucked with him a little bit after he fucking woke me up. We were getting along just fine before he felt the need to wake me up before we got to the hotel.” Looking up, she cocks her head sideways as she fixes Grantaire with a contemplative look. “What about you?”

“Joly, Bossuet, and Chetta got dibs on aux cord privileges,” Grantaire informs her, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “God, you should’ve heard the trash they made me suffer through…” Shuddering, he goes on, “Jehan swooped in and saved me at one point, though. We spent the rest of the car ride listening to Troye Sivan through his earbuds.” He’s unaware of how the corners of his mouth turn upward in a little smile at the memory as he murmurs, “All of us except Joly fell asleep at some point. Bahorel and Feuilly slept through nearly the whole ride. Jehan was, like, using my shoulder as a pillow.”

Éponine raises her eyebrows at that little tidbit, about to open her mouth to respond just when the elevator doors open. Pressing her lips together as she silently vows to discuss it with Grantaire later, they all file into the spacious elevator, luggage in hand, and Combeferre presses the button to take them up to the lobby and it’s up they go.

Once they enter the lobby, Éponine’s seriously beginning to think that this hotel is way too damn fancy for them all, but hey, everything’s being paid for, so she’s not going to complain. As Jehan walks up to the front desk, accompanied by Grantaire and Cosette, Éponine takes a seat in one of the plush sofas in the lobby beside Courfeyrac, stretching out her taut muscles after being stuck in her truck with Enjolras for three hours nonstop and yawning loudly as Courfeyrac gives her an odd look. Her luggage is at the foot of the sofa and the others have claimed seats in that particular area of the lobby, Bossuet laying his head down in Musichetta’s lap while Joly seems passed out on the tiny woman’s shoulder, exhausted after driving for three hours straight.

Éponine reaches into her backpack to pluck out a little packet of Cheetos, tearing it open and tossing a few into her mouth as she asks Courfeyrac, “So how was it, being stuck in the backseat for three hours?”

Courfeyrac scowls, reaching over to swipe some Cheetos before Éponine swats his hand away. He sticks the few Cheetos he managed to snatch away into his mouth, replying rather thickly, “I was snack guardian. And I slept most of the way.” He sees Combeferre sitting in an armchair nearby, absorbed in whatever it is he’s reading on his Kindle, and he makes a face at the memory of their little squabble earlier over the proper pronunciation of caramel. “Can you believe Combeferre pronounces carmel as _caramel_?” Courfeyrac scoffs, shaking his head.

Éponine scrunches up her face as she sticks her hand into her packet of Cheetos once again, replying, “Sorry, Courf, but I’m on ’Ferre’s side in this one. It’s caramel.”

Courfeyrac’s lips form a little outraged ‘O’ as a wounded look crosses his face and stays there, his hand going up to his chest to press against where he thinks his heart is. “Éponine Amélie Thénardier, you have no idea how betrayed I feel right now.”

“Oh, shut your face, ya big baby,” Éponine tells him, tossing a Cheeto into his open mouth just to see if she can and cackling at the look on Courfeyrac’s face when she succeeds in doing so.

Enjolras comes over just then, sitting down on the empty space beside Courfeyrac. A shit-eating grin stretches across Éponine’s face as she meets Enjolras’ eyes over Courfeyrac’s shoulders, and his cheeks immediately turn scarlet. He’s not even sure what she’s implying, but he’s certain it can’t possibly be something good.

“Courf, don’t you think pretty boy over here needs to pull that pole out of his ass?” Éponine asks, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger seemingly absent-mindedly.

Courfeyrac snorts loudly. “Yeah, no shit,” he responds. “Sorry, Enjy, but you’re made of stone, you need to loosen up a bit.” His face lights up just then and he declares, “We’re going to a bar tonight and we’re going to get you drunk!”

All the blood drains from Enjolras’ face at Courfeyrac’s declaration and Éponine can’t help but laugh out loud when Enjolras’ face goes from beet red to white in a matter of seconds, bringing her hand to her mouth to stifle her laughs. “He looks like he’s just seen a ghost,” Éponine remarks, covering her mouth to hide her chortles. “And let’s not go to a bar. We’re here for _adventure_ , aren’t we? There are plenty of bars back home, we can go anytime during the school year.”

For some reason, a reason she can’t quite comprehend right now, she can’t stand it when Enjolras looks so disturbed as a result of something someone other than herself said. She reasons that it’s because she takes pride in making him uncomfortable and since she’s a selfish bitch, she doesn’t want anyone else stealing her thunder. And yeah, maybe she said she doesn’t want to go to a bar mostly because she doesn’t find the concept of getting drunk in a regular bar while they’re on a road trip adventure appealing in any way, but despite how much she wants to, she can’t deny that Enjolras’ obvious discomfort is a factor in her decision. Which is _weird_ , considering how she takes joy in annoying him. It seems that she had a heart there for approximately fifteen seconds.

Courfeyrac pouts and glowers at Éponine. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

His words bring Éponine back to earth and she rolls her eyes. “I’m sure everyone else here would agree with me.” Standing up to make a point, she calls out, “Hey, if any of you want to go to a bar and get drunk tonight, raise your hand!”

Nobody’s hand goes up into the air. Musichetta straight-up _growls_ at the mere thought of it. It takes everything within Éponine not to bust out laughing.

Her lips stretching into a smug smirk, Éponine plops back down on the sofa as she throws one arm over the backrest and leans back in her seat. “I told—”

“Don’t say it,” Courfeyrac grumbles, petulantly crossing his arms across his chest much like a child would.

“—you so,” Éponine finishes. To her surprise, Enjolras chuckles at the triumphant look on her face and she shoots him a curious little smile, and he composes himself, but that tiny smile on his face—admittedly somewhat endearing, but Éponine’s got a reputation to maintain—remains. Just then, Jehan, Grantaire, and Cosette return from the front desk, Jehan looking as if he’s in slight distress with a few key cards in hand.

“Okay, everybody, please don’t panic,” Cosette calls out, effectively grabbing everyone’s attention.

Joly lifts his head from Musichetta’s shoulder—turns out he wasn’t passed out after all, just incredibly worn out—and his eyes widen. “Saying ‘don’t panic’ is a surefire way to get people to panic, just so you know.”

“So I may have accidentally booked us less rooms than we needed,” Jehan says sheepishly, seeming to shrink into himself as he looks down at his shoes, too embarrassed to look anyone in the eye.

Courfeyrac springs to his feet, dark eyes wide. “ _What?!_ ”

“I’m sorry!” Jehan wails, looking back up. Éponine thinks his bright blue eyes look a little glassy. “I just—”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Grantaire interjects when Jehan trails off in despair, placing a hand against the ginger’s back. “We all make mistakes, it’s not his fault.”

“It kind of is,” Courfeyrac snaps. “He was the one who booked us rooms.”

Grantaire glares at Courfeyrac and the latter quickly shuts up upon seeing the unexpected fire in the former’s green eyes. “Take it easy on him, fucking hell. We all make mistakes now and then.” He clears his throat and turns the subject back to rooming arrangements, saying, “There are five rooms between us. Marius and Cosette get one—” Jehan hands one of the key cards to Cosette “—and Joly, Chetta, and Bossuet get another—” Grantaire takes another key card from Jehan to toss in Musichetta’s direction “—so that leaves us with three rooms.”

“There’s no way I’m sharing with more than one of you assholes,” Bahorel yells out, not looking up from his phone.

Grantaire forces a smile. “Looks like we’ll just have to draw straws, then. Two to one room, two to another, and then four of us in the last.”

Éponine jumps to her feet, making a face at the idea of having to share with, God forbid, three of them. She wouldn’t _hate_ it, per se—it’s just that sharing a room with three other men isn’t exactly high on her bucket list.

Combeferre walks up and produces some straws from his backpack—honestly, it’s like he packed his whole apartment, Éponine’s going to call him Mary Poppins from now on—and then Bahorel pulls out his pocket knife to cut half of the straws shorter than the other four. Éponine bites her lip as Grantaire grabs the straws in his fist, ensuring that they all look as if they’re the same length, and then Combeferre is saying, “All of you, grab one.”

Of course Éponine ends up drawing one of the short straws. Just her fucking luck.

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Bahorel end up drawing the longer straws, so it looks like she’ll be sharing a room with Enjolras, Grantaire, and Jehan. Good grief.

“Okay, fine, you four choose who you want to room with,” Grantaire tells them rather cuttingly, seeming rather irritated that he drew one of the short straws. Courfeyrac grins smugly and grabs Combeferre’s arm, much to the bespectacled man’s surprise.

“What?” Courfeyrac says when Combeferre gives him a strange, quizzical look. “As if I’d share with either of these two.” He gestures to Feuilly and Bahorel.

“Oh, fuck me,” Bahorel bites back, narrowing his eyes at Courfeyrac before he grabs Feuilly’s wrist. “Come on, Feuilly.”

Grantaire turns to Jehan, Éponine, and Enjolras, giving them a tight-lipped smile. “Guess we’ll be sharing.”

Enjolras looks as if he's going to pass out.

* * *

The room they’ll be staying in is actually pretty nice—two queen-size beds, a TV mounted on the wall, and a plush armchair by the window that overlooks the streets of Chicago as well as a little separate kitchen with a coffee maker, a microwave, and a full-size refrigerator that they’re definitely not going to use. It’s well above Éponine’s expectations, but she can’t fully appreciate it due to the fact that she’ll have to share this room with Grantaire, Jehan, and Enjolras and will most likely have to share one of the beds with one of them. The mere thought of it gives her hives, but it looks like she’ll just have to suck it up and deal with it.

Grantaire lugs the last of their luggage into the hotel room before he closes the door behind them, turning around to face the rest of them and placing his hands on his hips, standing with his arms akimbo as he clicks his tongue. “All right, we have an hour and a half to recharge before we have to meet the others in the lobby. Should we figure out sleeping arrangements?”

“I’ll sleep in the armchair,” Enjolras says immediately, pointing to said armchair in the corner.

Éponine shoots him an incredulous look. “There is no fucking way we’re letting you sleep in that armchair. Look at you, you’re a fucking _giant_ , there’s no way you’d be comfortable.” She makes somewhat violent gesticulations as if to prove her point, gesturing to all six feet of Enjolras with a look on her face that he can’t quite decipher. “No, you’re taking a bed.”

“Looks like you two will be sharing a bed, then!” Grantaire announces, and Éponine whips around to look at him the moment she hears the words ‘sharing a bed’, indignation bubbling up inside her and making her cheeks flush red, her blood boiling, and the little green-eyed gremlin looks _gleeful_ , the fucking _asshole_ , he looks so fucking pleased with himself and Éponine wishes she could just slap that smirk off his face as she shares a look with Enjolras, seeing that he’s also turned scarlet and has a similar expression of ire on his face.

“Why the fuck do I have to share a bed with pole-up-his-ass pretty boy over here?!” Éponine practically screeches, crossing her arms across her chest. It’s petulant, she knows, but how else is she supposed to get her point across?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I was such an unappealing goblin to you,” Enjolras bites back, shooting Éponine a glare.

“Oh, stop making this all about you,” Éponine snarls, dropping her arms from her chest to let them dangle at her side as her hands ball into fists and she stomps towards Enjolras. “Jesus fuck, it’s not _you_ , you stupid fucking pretty boy, it’s—” Éponine cuts herself off and instead lets out a shrill scream of exasperation, disregarding how Jehan brings his hands up to his ears to muffle the sound as his face contorts into a look of utter discomfort. Once she’s lost her breath, Éponine composes herself and forces herself to inhale deeply before exhaling.

“Look, Enjolras, it’s not you I have a problem with,” Éponine informs him, trying her damn best to be civil and unclenching her fists. “Believe it or not, I actually think you’re a great guy. It’s just that— _fuck_ , you can get really uptight sometimes, you need to loosen up, but that’s the only issue I have when it comes to you, like, personally. I just really, really hate sharing a bed with someone. It’s nothing personal, for the most part.”

“I’ll go sleep in the armchair, then,” Enjolras says again, just about to go and deposit his luggage by the armchair when Éponine grabs him by the arm.

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous, you’re, like, six foot, there’s no way you’d be comfortable sleeping there,” Éponine snaps, forcibly pulling him back to her and looking up to meet his eyes. “I’ll put up with having to share a bed for two nights. There’s plenty of space for both of us, isn’t there?”

Enjolras’ brow furrows in pleasant surprise as he holds Éponine’s gaze, seeing the sincerity in her dark eyes and feeling his breath catch in his throat as they just stand there, staring at each other through wide eyes, silence falling upon them. “You don’t have to do that, you know,” he tells her under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

Éponine gives an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, replying quietly, “I’ve been a bit of a pain in the ass to you while we were on the road. It amused me at first, and don’t get your hopes up, pretty boy, I’m definitely going to be doing it again when we get back on the road, maybe even while we’re here, but I thought I’d give you a break for a little bit. Thought this would make up for it.”

Despite himself, Enjolras smiles, just a tiny bit, the corners of his mouth tilting up in an almost invisible grin. “Thank you. Really.”

Éponine’s cheeks grow warm and she hopes he doesn’t see how they turn the faintest shade of pink as she smiles back at him, the dimples in her cheeks barely noticeable due to how faint her smile is, and she responds, “Anytime.”

They’re soon made aware of the fact that Jehan and Grantaire are still in the room with them by Grantaire cackling and slowly clapping his hands together, and Éponine and Enjolras break eye contact to look at Grantaire, who has a shit-eating grin on his face. “God, I think I can actually _feel_ the sexual tension,” he comments overly dramatically, still with that _infuriating_ smirk on his face, and blood rushes into Éponine’s cheeks once again and she is absolutely certain that the same thing happens with Enjolras.

She grabs a hairbrush out of her backpack and tosses it at Grantaire’s head just as he falls back on one of the beds, curling into himself and clutching his stomach as he roars with laughter. Éponine is fuming, glaring daggers at Grantaire, the little gremlin, as she shouts, “Go fuck yourself!”

* * *

Courfeyrac throws himself onto one of the beds once he’s kicked off his shoes and lets out a loud, contented sigh, pulling the covers around himself and ruining the housekeeper’s hard work as he snuggles into the bed, practically sinking into the sheets. Combeferre rolls his eyes, but his lips are twitching as he restrains a smile while pulling their suitcases into the room before he closes the door behind them, going over to sit down on the other bed, which he supposes is his for the time being. Courfeyrac rolls around a bit in bed, wrapping the blankets around himself until only his face and some curls that stick out are visible, and he rolls on his side to look at Combeferre.

“You look like a marshmallow,” Combeferre informs him flatly. Courfeyrac sticks his tongue out in response, but he’s laughing.

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac chirps in response, flashing Combeferre a toothy grin from his blanket cocoon. The bespectacled man simply rolls his eyes in amusement and takes his shoes off to place neatly at the foot of his bed before he lies down, taking off his glasses to place on the little nightstand between the two beds, right by the telephone. He makes himself comfortable against the sheets, head against the fluffed-up pillows, and the two of them just lie there on their respective beds, looking at each other.

“How much time do we have left before we have to go downstairs?” Courfeyrac questions, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself.

“About an hour and a half, give or take,” Combeferre responds. “What do you want to do once we go out into the city?”

Courfeyrac shrugs—at least, that’s what Combeferre thinks he does. “Not sure. Isn’t there like a giant candy store or something in this city?”

“Dylan’s Candy Bar,” Combeferre tells him. “There’s also one in New York, I think.”

“Yeah, we’re going there.” Courfeyrac bursts into a fit of giggles at the thought of getting to act like a kid in a candy store once again, rolling about in bed while wrapped in his blanket cocoon for a little while more before he turns back to face Combeferre. “And Navy Pier. Where do _you_ want to go?”

“Adler Planetarium,” Combeferre replies, shrugging his shoulders. “And I think there’s this aquarium somewhere in the city. We could also go to the Sears Tower, go to the Skydeck, take some pictures.”

“Sounds nice.” Courfeyrac rolls over yet again to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling and just thinking. After a few moments of silence, he says, “You know, you’re still wrong about how to pronounce carmel.”

Combeferre sighs and rolls his eyes, so hard he thinks they might roll off his face. “Courfeyrac, how many times do I have to tell you? It’s _caramel_. Even Éponine agrees with me.”

Courfeyrac rolls over to stare at Combeferre in disbelief. “You were _eavesdropping_ on us?!”

Combeferre gives Courfeyrac a wry grin and deadpans, “You weren’t exactly being quiet, anybody within a ten-foot radius could have heard you yelling about the wrong pronunciation of caramel.”

“It’s _carmel_!” Courfeyrac whines insistently, petulant.

Combeferre shakes his head. “No, it’s definitely caramel. You’re just stubborn. Not to mention wrong.”

Courfeyrac scowls and rolls back over to stare up at the ceiling, mumbling, “Why can’t we go to a bar and get wasted tonight?”

“Let’s save the partying for Vegas, how about that?” Combeferre suggests.

Courfeyrac seems to light up at the idea of it, sitting up and nodding violently. “Hell yeah! Let’s party in Vegas!”

“We won’t be in Vegas for a long time, though,” Combeferre reminds him, still lying on his side on the bed.

Courfeyrac scowls again. “Why did you feel the need to remind me?”

He falls back on the bed, still cocooned in the sheets, and rolls over to face Combeferre once more. “Do you think Enjy’s got a crush on Ep?”

Combeferre shrugs noncommittally. “Maybe? I don’t know, he doesn’t usually handle having feelings for someone well and tends to get really obvious when he has a crush on someone. I didn’t pick up any signs.”

“ _I_ think he does,” Courfeyrac declares, still lying on his side on the bed. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Combeferre furrows his brow, completely bewildered. “That… makes absolutely no sense.”

“It’ll make sense later,” Courfeyrac promises, rolling onto his back once again. “I bet they’ll end up fucking by the end of this road trip. Two hot babes like them… they’re bound to fall for each other. And aren’t they sharing a room with R and Jehan? They’ll probably end up sharing a bed.”

Combeferre says nothing to that, simply rolls over to lie on his back as he places his hands under his head, humming softly to himself and staring up at the ceiling. They just stay like that for a little while more—lying on their respective beds in near-complete silence, the only sounds in the room being the slight whirring of the air conditioner and Combeferre absent-mindedly humming a song Courfeyrac doesn’t quite recognise. After a while, Courfeyrac asks, “Where do you think you want to go on this trip?”

“Hmmm?” Combeferre rolls back on his side to look at Courfeyrac, who is, once again, facing him. “What do you mean?”

“If you had full control of where we’re all going on this road trip, where would you take us?” Courfeyrac clarifies, genuinely curious for once, much to Combeferre’s pleasant surprise.

“Hmmm…” Combeferre mulls it over for a bit, wondering where he would want to take the others if he was the only one choosing where they’re going. “I’d probably take you guys to Niagara Falls. We’re all going there anyway, though. Apparently Éponine’s never been to Disney World, so we’ll go there when we go down to Florida, and also Universal Studios.” After a little more contemplation, Combeferre goes on, “I’d take you guys hiking in Colorado, just go up into the mountains and camp out, just us, and then to San Diego, for Comic Con.” Looking back into Courfeyrac’s eyes, the man watching him and listening intently, Combeferre says rather wistfully, “Too bad we won’t be able to go to SDCC, though.”

“Why not?” Courfeyrac questions, furrowing his brow.

“California’s probably going to be our last stop, isn’t it?” Combeferre points out.

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Probably.”

“It’d be too late by then.” Courfeyrac can’t help but notice the wistful look on Combeferre’s face at the thought of not getting to go to Comic Con, and for some reason, it saddens him, seeing Combeferre in such a state. Well, Courfeyrac supposes it can’t be helped.

“Hey, you know what?” Combeferre looks up at Courfeyrac’s words, eyebrows knit. “Maybe you’re right about how to pronounce carmel after all.”

Combeferre can’t help but give the other man an incredulous smile, letting out a snort of mirth as he asks in disbelief, “Are you seriously trying to cheer me up with _that_?”

“Hey, I’m trying my best!” Courfeyrac says, growing defensive as his bottom lip juts out in a pout, drawing a laugh from Combeferre.

“A for effort, Courf,” Combeferre tells him, a smile on his face that’s almost affectionate as he meets Courfeyrac’s eyes. “Now, if you _really_ want to cheer me up, why don’t you get rid of that cowboy hat?”

Courfeyrac snorts and sticks out his tongue. “In your dreams, jackass.”

Combeferre sighs and lies back on his back. “Well, I tried.” Feigning disdain, he thinks out loud overly dramatically in a poor attempt to mimic his temporary roommate, “I guess Courfeyrac really is an asshole after all.”

That earns him a pillow to the face.

* * *

Jehan walks back into the hotel room he’s sharing with Grantaire, Éponine, and Enjolras after visiting Cosette and Marius next door, just making light conversation during their down time before he made his way back to his own room. When he enters, Enjolras is nowhere to be seen and the sound of running water can be heard through the bathroom door, leading Jehan to deduct that Enjolras must have gone for a shower, while Éponine is splayed on the bed she’s to be sharing with Enjolras, headphones clamped tight over her ears as she scrolls through whatever it is she’s looking at on her phone. Jehan tries hard not to wince at how horrifying Éponine’s posture is, with her head resting against a stack of five pillows while the rest of her body is almost entirely pressed to the mattress—he can’t even imagine how terrible the strain must be on her neck—as his eyes find Grantaire sitting on their bed, at the edge of the mattress, looking down at his phone and clicking his tongue. The brunet looks up when Jehan goes over to sit down beside him, feet planted firmly on the floor, and he gives Jehan a quizzical look as the ginger smiles.

“Hey,” Jehan greets, somewhat tentative.

“What’s up?” Grantaire replies, flashing Jehan a toothy smile.

“Why did you do that back there?” Jehan asks, pursing his lips as he awaits an answer.

The look on Grantaire’s face is quick to turn quizzical. “What do you mean?”

“You defended me back there,” Jehan reminds him, his cheeks growing warm at the mere memory of it before he mentally scolds himself, wondering why on earth he’s blushing at the thought. “When Courf said it was technically my fault that we don’t have as many rooms as we should and you told him to take it easy, you know, on me. Why did you do that?”

Now it’s Grantaire’s turn to blush, his cheeks flushing an impressive shade of rosy pink as he looks into Jehan’s eyes, green staring into blue, and replies matter-of-factly, “I mean, you helped me out back then during the car ride, calming me down and shit when Bossuet and Chetta were getting on my fucking nerves. Why shouldn’t I return the favour by sticking up for you?” Realising how that came out sounding, Grantaire hastily amends, “Not—not that I wouldn’t stick up for you regardless, it’s just—” He lets out a derisive laugh. “ _Fuck_ , I’m really bad at wording things, aren’t I?”

Jehan laughs and reaches out to pat Grantaire’s back. “I think I get what you’re trying to say. By all means, thanks for that.”

Grantaire’s cheeks flush even pinker at the soft look on Jehan’s face, and he can’t help but smile back. “Anytime.”

It’s as if it’s only them in the room, just looking into each other’s eyes and holding one another’s gaze, and Jehan’s beginning to think it’s actually only him and Grantaire just when Éponine yanks off her headphones and yells out, “Can you two stop eyefucking? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are _other people_ in this room.”

Grantaire breaks eye contact with Jehan to glare at Éponine and flip her off, sticking up his middle finger in her direction as she looks on with a bored look on her face. “Fuck off. We’re having a moment, _darling_.”

Éponine snorts. “You should be calling _him_ that, not me.”

Grantaire sticks up his other middle finger at her before turning back to Jehan just as they all hear the shower shut off, soon followed by Enjolras stepping out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Jehan immediately looks away while Grantaire just narrows his eyes at Enjolras, an incredulous look on his face, but it’s Éponine’s reaction that takes the cake.

“Jesus fuck, put some clothes on, nobody wants to see that!” she hollers as Enjolras stands there in the bathroom doorway, cheeks flushed scarlet.

“Oh, really?” He raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, as he retorts coolly, “I seem to recall you saying earlier this afternoon, ‘You’re hot, I’d definitely hit that.’”

Éponine’s mouth falls open in outrage, but she can’t seem to get any words out, spluttering as Enjolras gives her the smallest hint of a triumphant smirk and heads over to his open suitcase to grab some clothes out of it, and fury is written all over Éponine’s face is he turns away from her, his back to her. How _dare_ he call her out and expose her to Grantaire and Jehan like that?

Grantaire just cackles as he turns to look at a seething Éponine, her cheeks practically on fire, what with how red they are. “ _Damn_ , Ep, he called your ass _out_. Did you really say that?”

Éponine doesn’t respond, too enraged to speak, and just grabs a pillow to throw in Grantaire’s general direction as she keeps her eyes trained on Enjolras—he’s dropping the towel from around his waist to reveal tight-fitting Calvin Klein boxer briefs underneath, and Éponine just _can’t look away_ when he bends down to take some clothes out of his suitcase, his ass on full view for her and Grantaire and Jehan—not that the latter two seem to care very much—to see. Fuck, it is _not fair_ for someone to have an ass that pristine.

Her inability to tear her gaze away from Enjolras’ ass soon catches Grantaire’s attention during the little time in which he isn’t staring at Jehan and conversing animatedly with the ginger, and the brunet smirks and drawls, “You enjoying the view over there?”

Éponine scoffs, but she makes no effort to look away. Seriously, just look at them apples. Who gave him the fucking right? “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she deadpans, eyes still fixed on Enjolras’ ass.

Enjolras straightens up and turns around to find Éponine’s gaze trained on his half-naked body and his cheeks flush pink as he says as evenly as possible, “If you could stop ogling me while I get dressed, that would be great.”

Éponine finally looks up to meet his piercing blue eyes, and she sneers, “You _wish_ I was checking you out, pretty boy.”

“’Ponine, even I could see how you were clearly staring at my chest.” It takes all of Enjolras’ willpower not to stutter his way through such a statement, keeping a level head as he and Éponine find themselves in an impromptu staring contest, trying to see who can get the other to crack first. She narrows his eyes at him, a dangerous little grin playing at her lips.

“Has anyone ever told you you’ve got real nice titties?” Éponine comments brazenly, and Enjolras’ face contorts in what can only be described as utter outrage and disbelief.

“I—you little— _Jesus Christ_ —” Enjolras splutters for a bit before he finally manages to spit out, “Fuck you.”

Éponine flashes him a toothy grin. “In your wet dreams, pretty boy.”

Enjolras inhales sharply before he evenly replies, “I could say the same to you, Miss ‘you’re hot, I’d definitely hit that’.”

“God, can you just drop that?” Éponine rolls her eyes, remarking, “It kind of sounds like you _want_ me to want to fuck you, with the way you keep bringing it up.” She raises an eyebrow, biting her lip to resist a mischievous grin. “Do you?”

“You must be imagining things,” Enjolras replies curtly, his cheeks flushing red at Éponine’s boldness as he finally gets around to pulling his jean shorts on before putting on a deep crimson T-shirt that Éponine doesn’t fail to notice is rather tight-fitting.

It annoys her.

She scoffs audibly and glares at him, wondering how on earth she’s supposed to suffer through two nights sharing a bed with him. She supposes they can always build a wall of pillows between them, to separate them, but as she finds herself inadvertently staring at his arms, noting just how muscular they are and catching herself thinking that it’d be nice to have those arms wrapped around her before she narrowly puts a stop to that thought to prevent it from straying any further.

What the fuck? She’s not supposed to be thinking about fucking _cuddling_ him, damn it! Besides, it would probably turn out to be uncomfortable anyway, she convinces herself, with how chiselled the asshole is. She doesn’t doubt that those abs are rock-hard, and she quickly comes to the conclusion that he’d be a terrible cuddler anyway, considering how much he dislikes physical contact most of the time.

Once Enjolras is fully clothed, he goes over to sit down on the bed Éponine’s currently splayed on, narrowing his eyes as he wonders how a person that small can hog that much space. He turns around to look at her; she seems to be scrolling aimlessly through her phone, humming lightly to herself, and a fleeting thought about how much nicer she looks when she isn’t scowling at him crosses his mind for the briefest of moments before he brushes it off.

Éponine soon takes notice of Enjolras just sitting there and staring at her and she narrows her eyes at him as a quizzical look crossed her face, brow furrowed. “What?” she asks, mild impatience in her voice.

“Nothing,” Enjolras replies as his eyes meet hers.

“Stop staring at me, then,” she tells him, and to his slight surprise, there isn’t much bite in her tone as opposed to what he previously expected.

He raises his hands in surrender and gets up to walk over to the window, staring out and down at the streets below, watching cars whizzing past as the sound of Jehan and Grantaire’s conversation and Éponine’s soft humming is reduced to background noise behind him. It’s nice, watching vehicles racing past as pedestrians line the pavements, exuding the air of the typical hustle and bustle of city folk, and he can’t help but feel rather overwhelmed, wondering how he’s going to manage while they’re in New York if he’s already overwhelmed by fucking _Chicago_.

Enjolras turns around upon hearing Grantaire announce, “I’m going to take a nap! One of you guys, wake me up when it’s time for us to go downstairs, will you?”

Jehan gives Grantaire a warm smile as the latter lies down on their bed and wraps himself up in the sheets, the former sitting at the edge of the mattress and replying, “Of course. Have a nice nap.”

Enjolras thinks it’s probably just him, but he thinks he sees the faintest blush colouring Grantaire’s cheeks at Jehan’s words, and he furrows his brow questioningly at the sight, thinking back to Éponine’s words from the drive. _“Do you think R and Jehan have the hots for each other?”_ As much as he hates to admit it, even to himself, Enjolras is beginning to think that Éponine might have a point.

Enjolras is about to voice his thoughts to the girl in question as Grantaire curls up amid the sheets and shuts his eyes, looking to the other bed only to find that Éponine’s fallen asleep as well, softly snoring.

* * *

“So where to?”

Combeferre has a few dozen tabs open on his phone, having researched things to do and places to go while in Chicago thirty minutes prior, as he leisurely paces back and forth on the carpet. All the Amis are sitting around in the lobby, talking incessantly between themselves and arguing over where to go first while they’re there in the windy city. Éponine is lying on a couch with her legs dangling over the edge of the armrest, Enjolras sitting beside her and Courfeyrac perched on the opposite armrest, and Éponine is seriously beginning to consider stealing Courfeyrac’s cowboy hat and burning it.

“What places are there to see?” Cosette calls out from her spot in Marius’ lap in an armchair, directing her question at Combeferre.

“Dylan’s Candy Bar!” Courfeyrac shouts, springing to his feet.

A look of confusion crosses Feuilly’s face. “Is that, like, a giant sculpture of a candy bar, or…?”

Courfeyrac barks out a laugh before his cackles quickly multiply, doubling over in mirth, which nearly causes his cowboy hat to fall off, as Feuilly stares at him in complete bafflement. “ _No_ , dumbass, it’s this giant candy store on North Michigan Avenue! Let’s go there! Go wild!”

“You’ll be bouncing off the walls by sunset from the sugar high,” Éponine remarks boredly, swinging her legs over the edge of the armrest as she stares up at her phone, which she’s dropped on her face twice now. Enjolras stares at her, blue eyes incredulous, and it seems that she takes notice, with how she sarcastically adds in a low voice, “Take a picture, pretty boy, it’ll last longer.”

“Yes! That’s the point!” Courfeyrac yells out, in response to Éponine’s earlier comment, and he springs to his feet to bound his way towards Combeferre, immediately putting an arm around the taller man once he’s right by his side. “If we can’t get drunk or high or _whatever_ , at least off actual drugs, let’s go gorge ourselves on sugar.”

“You probably shouldn’t be yelling about doing drugs around here,” Joly nervously points out, eyes darting around to seek out anyone who might have possibly heard Courfeyrac’s obnoxiously loud blabbering.

“Fine, but we’re going to that candy store!” Courfeyrac insists, arm still around Combeferre, who’s giving him a strange look, eyebrows furrowed in slight bewilderment as he wonders why on earth Courfeyrac would be clinging to him in such a way. “Come on, no time to lose!”

“We have, like, five hours of daylight left,” Bahorel points out in disinterest as he gets up and just trails after the others as they all start getting to their feet, trudging out of the hotel lobby and into the sunshine.

Combeferre blinks and squints as sunlight pours onto his face, Courfeyrac smirking beside him at the bespectacled man’s obvious discomfort from the bright light. “The cowboy hat isn’t such a bad idea now, is it?”

“I still want to burn it,” Combeferre mutters in reply, looking down at his phone as the others mill about on the pavement, moving out of the way to allow people passage into the hotel.

“How far is the candy store?” Cosette calls out, already piggybacking on Marius.

“Not far from here,” Combeferre replies, having pulled up Google Maps on his phone. “Just a few blocks away. Come on, let’s get going!”

Combeferre assumes the role of leader, being the one with the directions to the shop, and everyone else just trails behind him, trusting his directions, and Éponine finds herself chatting with Grantaire and Jehan as Enjolras drifts off to walk with Feuilly. She’s walking between the brunet and the ginger, rather shaken by how the both of them are nearly a full head taller than she is, but she tries not to let that get to her in favour of just talking with the both of them, engaged in pleasant conversation.

“How are you two going to put up with sharing a bed?” Éponine questions rather brashly, giving them both a shit-eating grin.

Grantaire shrugs nonchalantly. “It’ll be nothing,” he replies. After assuming a confident manner and a few moments of hesitation, he adds, “Unlike you and Enjy, there is no sexual tension between _us_.”

Éponine can’t help but notice how the smile on Jehan’s face falters for a millisecond before he beams once again, and she takes note of that brief falter, biting her lip to keep the sly smile from being too obvious. It takes her a few moments to register what Grantaire’s just said, and once she does, she smacks him in the arm, visibly affronted, eyebrows knit and lips forming a small ‘O’.

“Shut the fuck up,” she growls, glaring daggers at Grantaire through her mirrored sunglasses as it’s his turn to give her a shit-eating grin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. There’s no sexual tension between pretty boy over there and me.”

“No sexual tension, my ass,” Éponine hears Jehan mumble beside her, and she’s torn between disbelief at the fact that Jehan actually cursed and aggravation at how he actually _agrees_ with such fancies. To compensate, she elbows him, evoking a dull “ow” from him and a dirty look from Grantaire.

“Ginger’s right, Ep,” Grantaire insists. “I mean, the way you two just stared at each other while you were screaming on and on and on…” He trails off, looking off into the distance as Éponine tries—and fails—to properly process his words.

Enjolras is ahead of them, walking with Feuilly and engaged in conversation that’s only slightly awkward with him, hands in his pockets and sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “What do you think of your rooming situation?” Enjolras questions rather gingerly in a feeble attempt to spark conversation.

Feuilly shrugs. “Could be worse,” he replies. “I don’t really mind sharing with Bahorel, as long as he isn’t being annoying. There are two beds, we’ll be fine. And you?”

Enjolras makes a face underneath his sunglasses, though he knows Feuilly can’t quite see. “I have to share a bed with Éponine,” he informs Feuilly sourly. “She’s fucking insufferable half the time.”

“Well, maybe when you two are sharing a bed it’ll be that half when she isn’t,” Feuilly blithely points out in an attempt to cheer Enjolras up, patting him on the back. “It’s only for two nights, isn’t it? And besides, the bed’s big enough for the both of you and a pillow wall in between.”

“Oh, God, but she hogs so much space,” Enjolras tells Feuilly, seeming to become increasingly desperate about his sleeping arrangements. “She took a nap before we all went to meet in the lobby. How does a person that small take up so much space?”

Feuilly purses his lips as he attempts to come up with an appropriate response, eventually replying with, “Well, she’s not so bad half the time, right? You were just telling me earlier that you two get along pretty well at moments.”

“Well, yes, we do,” Enjolras admits, shoving his hands further into his pockets, “but shit, she’s just _so annoying_ sometimes. She never passes up an opportunity to fuck around with me.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because it’s fun to rile you up,” Feuilly says. He shrugs when Enjolras turns his head to give him an incredulous look, reasoning, “All of us do it sometimes. It’s pretty funny to see your face all red when we mess with you.”

Enjolras scowls, rather affronted. “I thought you were on my side.”

“Oh, I am,” Feuilly reassures him. “It’s just that… Sometimes you need to pull that stick out of your ass, Enjolras.”

“Hell yeah he does!” they hear Éponine holler from behind them, and Enjolras groans, stopping in his tracks and Feuilly doing the same until Éponine catches up to them.

“How long have you been eavesdropping?” Enjolras asks with slight dread as she looks up and gives him a shit-eating grin, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head and pushing her hair back from her face.

“Long enough to know that I totally agree with Feuilly here,” Éponine replies cheerfully as she walks alongside them, a spring in her step. “You need to pull that pole out of your ass, pretty boy. You’re really great to be around when you’re not being so uptight.” She walks off to talk to Grantaire once again before Enjolras can fully process her words, not particularly wishing to be bombarded by questions from him once he does, and she leaves him there absolutely dumbfounded as he walks with Feuilly, confused beyond belief.

“She’s so volatile,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

Feuilly snorts. “Only you could possibly work the word ‘volatile’ into everyday conversation. Yeah, she is, but so are you.”

Enjolras makes a face, not entirely disagreeing with Feuilly but also not in full agreement, so he just falls silent for the rest of their journey by foot to that candy store Courfeyrac so badly wants to see. They reach the shop about twelve minutes later, and Enjolras’ jaw drops.

It’s _enormous_ —two entire floors of rainbow-coloured candy heaven, complete with an outdoor eating area and tasteful arrangements of candy on display in the windows. Once inside, they’re blasted by the sight of multicoloured candy displays as well as a white staircase leading up to the second floor, an artificial lollipop tree extending nearly all the way to the second floor ceiling and providing interestingly-coloured lighting from the ceiling lights that filter in through the giant lollies. It’s a candy paradise, and the grin on Courfeyrac’s face grows wide and he immediately takes off in search of the Wonka candy section.

They all go their own separate ways, mostly in twos or threes, and Combeferre turns around to look at Enjolras. “Should I go after him?” Combeferre questions, evidently meaning Courfeyrac.

Enjolras nods. “It’s probably better if you do. I’ve seen what happens when you leave Courf unsupervised in a candy store, it’s not a pretty sight.”

“Ah, got it.” Combeferre leaves without another word, walking off in the direction of wherever Courfeyrac went and leaving Enjolras standing there alone. Soon enough, Éponine walks up to him, arms already full of candy, and she grins up at him.

“Come on, pretty boy, let’s get some sugar into your system,” she tells him, handing half the candy in her arms with much difficulty over to him and sticking a lollipop she’d already paid for into her mouth, sucking on it a little too suggestively and smirking when a rosy blush rises to Enjolras’ cheeks.

“Don’t do that,” he mutters under his breath as he walks alongside her up the stairs, wondering why on earth he’s carrying her shit in the first place. Éponine takes the lollipop out of her mouth and laughs out loud.

“Why, does this make you uncomfortable?” She sticks the lollipop back into her mouth and sucks on it before taking it out with a crude pop of her lips. Enjolras makes a face when she says saucily, “That’s just one of _many_ things I can do with my mouth, pretty boy.”

“Jesus _fuck_ , stop saying things like that,” he hisses at her, elbowing her in the side as she struggles to contain her laughter.

“Sure thing, papa,” Éponine replies airily.

“And don’t call me things like that,” Enjolras snaps, a little too much bite to his tone that seems to startle Éponine. “It’s uncomfortable.”

“Okay.” For once, she doesn’t come up with a cutting response, looking as if she herself has realised that she crossed a line with that one remark.

“Thank you,” Enjolras manages to say after a silence that was quick to turn awkward, giving her a smile, a genuine smile. She gives him an easy grin in return.

“No problem, pretty boy,” she tells him, stopping once they’ve reached the top of the staircase. She looks up, brown eyes finding his blue, and she says, “You know, you’re pretty cute when you don’t look so anxious and constipated all the time.”

“I don’t look constipated,” Enjolras is quick to respond, rather stung, though he doesn’t fail to pick up on how she’s just complimented him.

“Emotionally? Yes, you are,” Éponine informs him bluntly, though her tone isn’t cruel. It’s frank, matter-of-fact; Enjolras catches himself thinking she might have a point before he stops himself. “You’re one of the most emotionally constipated people I know.” She turns around, but not before reaching up to boop his nose and saying, “You should work on that.”

Enjolras has no idea what to make of her words as he stands there flabbergasted.

* * *

They end up having dinner at the candy store.

It isn’t long after they all finish when Bossuet suggests they all go to Navy Pier, to the Ferris wheel, and so they all go on their way, shopping bags filled to the brim with candy in hand. It’s well past sundown by the time they reach Navy Pier, and twenty more minutes in line before they find themselves occupying two cabins, six to one and seven to the other. Jehan notes how Éponine and Enjolras aren’t bickering for once as he takes his seat beside Grantaire near the window of their cabin, joined by Bahorel and Feuilly.

“Look, they’re getting along,” Jehan whispers to Grantaire, gesturing to Éponine and Enjolras, who take seats across from each other, Éponine on Grantaire’s other side and Enjolras beside Feuilly.

Grantaire can’t help but grin slightly. “Yeah.”

Éponine lets out a long-winded sigh and settles her head on Grantaire’s shoulder with a slight pout of her lips. “God, I’m so fucking exhausted,” she mumbles, closing her eyes and letting out another deep sigh. She stays in that position, leaving Grantaire to wonder whether she’s really fallen asleep or is just keeping her eyes closed so she won’t have to look right at Enjolras, who’s sitting right across from her.

He decides to chat with Jehan instead, a little smile on his face at how the ginger’s eager to respond, the two of them losing themselves in their own little world and paying no heed to how Bahorel places his headphones over his ears and loses himself in music while Enjolras and Feuilly converse, Éponine seeming to have fallen asleep on Grantaire’s shoulder, breathing softly.

“So what did you think? First full day of our road trip adventure.” Jehan’s voice brings Grantaire out of his thoughts; they’re nearing the top of the wheel and he’s been staring out the cabin at the Chicago skyline before Jehan speaks again.

“Success,” Grantaire declares, triumph lacing his tone.

“Where do you think we’ll be going tomorrow?” Jehan questions. “I looked some things up earlier, we still have a lot to see.”

“I know. I was thinking we could go to the Shedd Aquarium in the morning, when it opens,” Grantaire suggests. “And then we could go see the Bean.”

“What the fuck is the Bean?” It seems that Bahorel’s been listening in for some time, with how he interrupts them without warning. The look on his face is incredulous, face all scrunched up, and Grantaire snorts at the sight.

“Technically, the official name for it is Cloud Gate,” Jehan explains.

“Everyone just calls it the Bean because it pisses the sculptor off,” Grantaire adds, grinning at the thought. “Fucking Anish Kapoor…”

“Wait, the guy who made the Bean is Anish fucking Kapoor?” Éponine lifts her head up from Grantaire’s shoulder, stifling her giggles.

“Yep,” Grantaire confirms.

“Isn’t he that guy who trademarked the ‘blackest black’ or something like that?” Their conversation seems to have gotten the attention of Enjolras and Feuilly, the latter piping up with a question of his own.

“The very same,” Grantaire affirms gleefully. “He hates it when people call it the Bean. All the more reason to keep calling it that.”

Éponine lets out a snort of laughter before going to settle her head on Grantaire’s shoulder once again, sticking her tongue out at Enjolras when he gives her a somewhat conflicted look at the sight, biting his lip as a look of annoyance crosses his face for a fleeting moment. It’s brief, but Grantaire notices, and he can’t help but think about why Enjolras would make such a face at Éponine during that particular moment; it only further cements his firm belief that deep down, the blond has a thing for the fiery brunette, and a shit-eating grin forms on his face that nobody but Jehan notices.

“Why are you smiling like that?” the ginger asks.

“I’m not smiling like anything,” Grantaire responds, though he can’t keep the stupid grin off his face.

Jehan looks back and forth between Enjolras and Éponine, the latter of whom is seemingly asleep on Grantaire’s shoulder while the former is engaged in deep conversation with Feuilly, although Jehan doesn’t fail to pick up on how Enjolras keeps stealing glances at Éponine, completely failing at being subtle.

“Hey, Enj?” Grantaire whisper-shouts to Enjolras, catching his attention. When Enjolras raises his eyebrows questioningly, Grantaire tells him, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Okay, that’s enough, I think you should stop ragging on him.” Jehan takes Grantaire’s hand and laces their fingers together, flexing the hand Grantaire is currently holding and looking down at their intertwined fingers, heedless of how Grantaire turns the faintest shade of pink.

“ _Thank you_ , Jehan,” he hears Enjolras say with slight exasperation before going back to chatting with Feuilly, attempting not to look so obvious in constantly stealing quick glances at Éponine.

Jehan rubs circles into Grantaire’s palm with his thumb, looking up to meet the brunet’s eyes and giving him a little smile. “How would you describe today?”

Grantaire looks down at their intertwined hands before looking back up to meet Jehan’s eyes, a smile on his face. “Success.”


	4. let's take it easy, easy now, watch it go

* * *

Enjolras stands there and stares. “ _No._ ”

“What the hell is wrong with this?” Éponine stares straight into his eyes, trying her damn best to stare him down as their eyes lock.

Enjolras sighs and breaks eye contact to look down at his feet, rubbing his temple. “We already have to share a bed. _Please_ don’t sleep in your underwear, you’re making this a lot weirder than it has to be.”

Grantaire barely manages to contain his laughter as he watches the scene unfold before him, sitting cross-legged on the bed he’s sharing with Jehan, the ginger already lying down beside him and curled up under the sheets. Éponine’s standing in nothing but lacy black underwear, arms crossed across her chest, and Enjolras is pointedly keeping his eyes from wandering any further down from Éponine’s neck, but _fuck_ , she’s making it so fucking _difficult_ when she’s barely dressed in such a manner.

Éponine doesn’t speak for several moments, just looking Enjolras up and down and licking her lips a little too obviously as she eyes his biceps bursting out of that scarlet T-shirt he’s wearing (God, that shirt has absolutely _no_ business being as tight as it is), a pair of plain black boxer shorts on underneath, and she looks back up into his eyes with a smirk. “Why, do you find this—” She strikes an overtly sexual pose, complete with twirling a lock of hair around her finger, and she struggles to contain her giggles at how Enjolras turns scarlet in an instant “—distracting?”

“’Ponine, for the love of all that is holy, _please_ put on some clothes,” Enjolras nearly begs, willing to sacrifice his dignity for Éponine in actual fucking clothes just this one time. “I think I’ve made it clear that I don’t want to have sex with you.”

“Well, when you phrase it like that…” Éponine rolls her eyes, dropping her arms from her chest to place her hands on her hips, completely unabashed about wearing nothing but her underwear while being in a room with three men. Grantaire’s impressed. He’s gotta admit that she has a rocking bod. “I didn’t bring clothes comfortable enough for me to sleep in, I always sleep in my underwear. Didn’t realise you were such a prude, pretty boy.”

“I’m not,” Enjolras contradicts, stung. “It’s just… it’s weird for me to see people in their underwear, it’s nothing personal. Please put on some clothes. For me?”

Éponine brings a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter at how desperate Enjolras seems to be. “Damn, you’re cute when you beg,” she remarks, laughing even more when Enjolras’ cheeks turn an even deeper shade of scarlet. “See, the thing is, I _would_ if I had any appropriate comfortable clothing, but I don’t.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—” Enjolras lets out a loud huff and marches over to his suitcase, flinging it open and grabbing a burgundy-red T-shirt before he shuts his suitcase and walks back over to Éponine, handing her the shirt. “Wear this, if you’ve really got nothing else to wear.”

Grantaire watches with great interest as Éponine looks back and forth between Enjolras and the T-shirt he’s holding, a look of slight disbelief on her face, until eventually she relents and takes the shirt from Enjolras with much hesitation, pulling it over her head. The shirt is enormous and baggy on her, falling to her mid-thighs, and Grantaire finds it absolutely _adorable_ how tiny she looks in Enjolras’ shirt, one shoulder exposed.

“That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” Grantaire comments, chuckling when Éponine scrunches up her face at him.

She tugs the shirt down, as far as she possibly can, before she looks back up into Enjolras’ eyes, crossing her arms across her chest and raising her eyebrows expectantly. “Better?”

Enjolras cracks a little smile. “Much. It… looks nice on you.”

Éponine bites her lip and smiles, shifting from one foot to the other as she looks down at the floor. “Thanks.”

She makes a mental note to sniff the shirt later, when he’s not looking at her the way he currently is. Something tells her Enjolras is the kind of person to smell amazing.

“Enjy, take off your shirt,” Grantaire tells Enjolras out of the blue, attention completely on him and Éponine.

Éponine makes a face, rather disgusted, while Enjolras looks like a deer caught in headlights. “Ew, why?”

“Just do it!” Grantaire insists, waving his hands in their direction.

Enjolras looks back and forth between Éponine and Grantaire, confusion written all over his face, blue eyes wide. “ _Why?_ ”

“God, Enjy, just do it, just for a second,” Grantaire tells him, growing irritated. Enjolras’ confusion is evident as he reluctantly complies, pulling his T-shirt over his head and holding it in his arms. Grantaire smirks, victorious.

“Now it looks like you two just had sex,” he remarks, erupting in fits of laughter when both Éponine and Enjolras turn red in an instant, Enjolras quickly pulling his shirt back over his head as Éponine flips Grantaire off, seething.

“Fuck you,” she snarls, only further fanning the flames of Grantaire’s delight.

“No, thanks,” he replies, like the fucking smartass he is. “I’m sure Enjy would be willing to, though.”

“No, I really wouldn’t,” Enjolras stoutly denies, beet red.

Éponine attempts to ignore the slight sting of Enjolras’ words as she grabs a pillow off her and Enjolras’ bed and tosses it at Grantaire with as much force as she can muster, hitting him square in the face, and he only laughs harder at their expense, thoroughly enjoying himself. Eventually, Éponine gives up, seeing no point in trying to get Grantaire to stop, so she just resolves to ignore him, turning her attention back to Enjolras.

“I think we should go to sleep now,” she suggests, quirking an eyebrow.

Enjolras nods in agreement, a bit too quickly. “Do you—should we build a pillow wall between us or something of the sort?”

Éponine snorts, shaking her head. “Not enough pillows. The bed’s big enough for us to sleep on opposite sides, isn’t it?”

Enjolras’ gaze alternates between her and their bed before he eventually nods. “I suppose so.”

“Aight.” Éponine climbs into bed and doesn’t waste time in curling up under the sheets, hogging much of them as Enjolras climbs into bed with her after a few moments of hesitation, leaving a considerable amount of space between them and grabbing whatever part of the blanket she hasn’t grabbed for herself to pull over his body, settling his head on a pillow and closing his eyes.

Grantaire’s laughter finally dies down and he lies down beside Jehan on their bed, about to curl up under the sheets before he feels Jehan’s arms wrap around his midriff and pull him closer, making him freeze. “Jehan?” he whispers, looking behind him as best as he can.

“Mmf,” Jehan merely mumbles in response, just a bit more than half-asleep. “You’re comfy.”

Grantaire cracks a feeble little smile though he knows the ginger can’t see. He supposes he’ll put up with being used as a human teddy bear for one night. “G’night, Jehan.”

Jehan buries his face in Grantaire’s shoulder and smiles. “Good night.”

* * *

Marius is lying on the bed, clad in plaid pyjama pants as well as a plain blue T-shirt, and looking through the seventeen trillion photographs of Courfeyrac at that candy store from earlier on his phone as he waits for Cosette to finish her shower, chuckling softly to himself at the photographic evidence of Courfeyrac going absolutely batshit crazy at Dylan’s Candy Bar, laughing out loud when he swipes to the picture in which it’s clear that Combeferre and Enjolras are just barely restraining the smaller man from fucking jumping onto the lollipop tree in the middle of the store. The television mounted on the wall is on, playing reruns of _The Office_ , but Marius barely notices, choosing instead to post one of the tamer pictures of Courfeyrac running wild in a candy store on Instagram just when he hears the shower water shut off, looking up upon seeing Cosette exit the bathroom dressed in nothing but one of the bathrobes provided by the hotel, hair wrapped in a towel.

“Hey,” he calls, a little smile lighting up his face as she heads over to sit down beside him on the single king-size bed the room’s provided them with.

“Hi.” She steals a glance at his phone screen, brow furrowing as the corners of her lips tug upwards in amusement. “What are you looking at?”

Marius holds out his phone for Cosette to see, the blonde bursting out laughing at the sight of Courfeyrac sticking his tongue out for the camera to show off how his tongue had turned red and blue from the candy he had eaten. She’s still snorting in between laughs when she gets up to head over to the shelf in the closet, grabbing some pyjamas out of her suitcase and letting her bathrobe drop to the floor. Marius watches with mild interest as Cosette pulls on a pair of panties before she puts on her Star Wars pyjamas consisting of a pale grey T-shirt with the Star Wars logo on it and shorts patterned with gold C-3PO heads before she takes off her towel hat and wrings what’s left of the water from the shower out of her blonde locks.

She seems to sense Marius’ gaze trained on her and turns around, giving him a little smile. “Were you checking me out?”

Marius shrugs, still smiling that hopelessly lovesick smile as Cosette goes over to join him on the bed. “I’ve got a beautiful girlfriend, what can I say?”

Cosette lets out a breathy laugh and leans in to press her lips to his, sighing contentedly when he readily kisses her back, reaching up to cup her jaw in one hand before she pulls away, joining him under the covers and curling into him as they look through the photographs on Marius’ phone together. Cosette can’t help but giggle slightly at the sheer amount of Courfeyrac pictures, murmuring, “You’ve got an awful lot of pictures of Courf.”

“He’s my second-best friend,” Marius replies, shrugging once again.

“Oh?” Cosette lifts up her head to press a kiss to Marius’ cheek, a playful little smile on her face as she questions innocently, “Then who would be the first?”

Marius turns his head to meet Cosette’s eyes, green finding blue, and he leans in to kiss her forehead. “You.”

Cosette laughs, pointing out, “But so many of these pictures are of Courfeyrac.”

“I may have had a bit of a crush on him when I first met him,” Marius admits, freckled cheeks flushing red. “But that was before I met you.” He buries his face in Cosette’s damp hair, inhaling the sweet scent of her lavender shampoo and kissing the top of her head. “All it took was one look and I was completely gone.”

“Really? Because I thought you were a bit of a creep at first,” Cosette responds candidly, making Marius freeze. Sensing his sudden discomfort, she looks up and bursts out laughing at the look on his face, snorting and saying, “I was _joking_ , honey nugget. Yes, it was kind of weird how you always found ways to run into me and never said a word until I finally offered to buy you coffee that one day, but obviously you grew on me.”

Marius takes Cosette’s hand in his and laces their fingers together, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing her knuckles. “I love you, pookie.”

Cosette smiles up at him and kisses his cheek once again. “I love you too, angel face.”

She lets out a deep sigh and curls into him, the two of them returning their focus to _The Office_ as she thinks back to the day she first asked him out for coffee, back in October of their freshman year of college after taking notice of how he always kept “randomly” running into her and yet never said a word, only ever stammering out a string of incomprehensible noises before immediately running off until she took matters into her own hands and offered to take him out for coffee. During that one coffee date, she discovered that he’s got so much more to him than what he might have initially led on, and the rest, as they say, is history.

“Hey, Cosette?” She looks up, eyebrows raised at the hesitation in Marius’ voice.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I’ve been thinking a lot… about us.” He doesn’t stumble over his words, but his voice is quivering, and Cosette’s blue eyes find his green, eyebrows slightly raised. “We’ve been together for almost three years now. Like, I’ve known for a while now that I want to get married someday. Not today or tomorrow or anything like that, but it’s something I really want in my future.” Taking a deep breath, he asks, “How do you feel about it?”

Cosette gives him a curious little smile, replying honestly, “I want to get married one day as well. I mean, we already live together, we know we’re compatible as roommates… why’d you bring it up?”

Marius lets out a low, nervous-sounding laugh. “I wanted to see if we’re on the same page. Looks like we are.”

Butterflies flutter in Cosette’s stomach as she keeps her gaze fixed on her beau’s eyes, teeth digging into her bottom lip. “So you want to get married someday?”

Marius nods, a goofy little smile on his freckled face. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. To you. You’re the only one I can see myself spending the rest of my life with.” After a few moments of hesitation, he questions tentatively, “What if I propose at some point, while we’re all travelling?”

Cosette giggles and leans up to kiss the tip of his nose. “Well, I’d definitely say yes.”

“Should I steer clear of public proposals?” Marius asks.

“I’d be fine with any kind of proposal, really,” Cosette replies. “But if it’s public, only if it’s someplace _nice_.”

Marius’ smile is quick to turn teasing. “Define ‘nice’,” he playfully challenges, affectionately mimicking Cosette’s tone of voice.

“I don’t know, like…” Cosette rests her head on Marius’ chest as he pulls her closer to him, stroking her hair. “Maybe the beach, either California or Florida, or someplace like the Empire State Building or somewhere in Central Park. Universal Studios or Disney World would be great too, as would Niagara Falls. You could also go with New Orleans or the Brooklyn Bridge or the Grand Canyon. Or something.”

Marius chuckles. “You’ve certainly given this a lot of thought.”

Cosette lightly elbows him in the stomach, resisting a snort. “I’m just naming places off the top of my head, if you’re going to go down the public proposal route.”

Marius presses his lips to Cosette’s forehead. “I’ll sleep on it.”

Cosette’s lips curve upwards into the most adorable little smile as she gazes into Marius’ eyes, leaning up to press a lingering kiss to his lips. She’s breathless by the time she pulls back, still smiling up at him with the utmost affection and tenderness in her big, shining blue eyes. “I really love you, you know that?”

“I really love you too,” Marius replies softly, leaning in, his lips capturing hers in a passionate kiss. She lets out a sigh as she rolls onto her back, pulling him on top of her, and kisses him harder, fingers tangling themselves in his auburn locks as a moan falls from her lips. A low groan escapes him, his hands tracing her delicate curves through her sleepwear, and it’s not long until her hands are tugging on the hem of his shirt, prompting him to break away from her for the briefest of moments to tug his shirt over his head and toss it over the side, immediately going back to kissing her as she moans in delight, pressing her body flush against his.

All it takes is one touch, and Cosette melts.

* * *

Feuilly groans and turns over yet again in bed; this has been going on for two hours now, he’s beginning to lose hope in ever finding a comfortable enough sleeping position that’ll allow him to actually fucking _sleep_ through the night. For some reason, his bed is really fucking lumpy, but God forbid that he’s going to call housekeeping and _complain_ like some spoiled, snotty little asshole who’s had everything in their life handed to them on a silver platter, no kind of decent human being does that. In his humble opinion, hotel housekeepers are a godsend and they’re doing their best.

Which leaves him to the somewhat messy task of straightening out the seemingly invisible lumps on his bed himself.

As quietly as he can, he slides off the bed and attempts to straighten out the bed by pounding repeatedly at it with a pillow, which proves to be futile, as well as unfortunately doubling as a method of waking Bahorel up. Although Feuilly’s not sure if he was ever really asleep in the first place.

“Waz goin’ on?” Bahorel asks drowsily, lifting his head up slightly from his pillow and rolling over to lie on his stomach.

“Can’t sleep,” Feuilly replies, shrugging. “Bed’s really lumpy.” He narrows his eyes at Bahorel, frowning. “Have you been awake this whole time?”

“Couldn’t really sleep,” Bahorel mutters in response, rubbing at his eye with a fist. “Not with those two next door going to town on each other’s bits. God, when will they fucking stop…”

He’s evidently referring to how Marius and Cosette have been having sex for three straight hours now, and _fuck_ , they seem to have no concept of other people’s general comfort, they’re being so damn loud. Feuilly’s been more focused on straightening out the lumps in his bed to really notice, and it’s only now that he realises the incessant moaning and squealing from next door has been going on for quite a while now.

Bahorel props himself up against the headboard, looking over at Feuilly. “Want to switch beds? I don’t really give a shit if the bed’s lumpy.”

Feuilly lets out an almost hysterical sigh of relief, nodding vigorously. “Oh, God, yes, please.”

Bahorel practically rolls out of his bed and is in the one Feuilly had been occupying up until now in an instant, letting out a contented grunt and pulling the sheets up to his neck. Feuilly climbs into the other bed and the first thing he notices is how much _better_ it is—no lumps anywhere. He sighs and turns over to face Bahorel on the other bed, curling up in the sheets.

“So what do you think?” he whispers, like they’re two kids at summer camp after lights out, trying not to get caught whispering in the dead of the night by their counsellors. “Of the trip so far?”

Bahorel shrugs. “It’s nice, I like it. Looking forward to see what happens, really. You?”

“I really want to go to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame,” Feuilly replies with a shrug of his shoulders. “Since we’re already going to Cleveland anyway after Mammoth Cave.”

“Yeah, aren’t you, like, a Beatles freak?” Feuilly can hear the slight grin in Bahorel’s voice as he says that, voice slightly muffled.

“Yes, but that’s not the point.” Feuilly rolls his eyes and buries his face into his pillow for a bit before lifting his head up again, mumbling, “Looking forward more to the ABBA part of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame than the Beatles part, really.”

“Oh, yeah, you can never go wrong with ABBA.” Bahorel hums absently for a little bit before adding, “I liked seeing Courf going fucking bonkers at the candy store, managed to get it on video.”

Feuilly cracks a smile at the memory. “Enjolras sure has his hands full.”

“Eh, he and ’Ferre can handle Courf well enough,” Bahorel mumbles, words slightly slurred together from drowsiness. “They’ve all been living together for two years and they haven’t burned their place down yet, I’d think that’s a good thing.” Shifting just a bit, he adds gruffly, “Probably helps that there are some sparks there, between Courf and ’Ferre.”

That grabs Feuilly’s attention. “Really?”

Bahorel lets out a dry laugh. “Just pay closer attention to them, you’ll see. I mean, from the way they bicker like an old married couple…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, simply trails off and closes his eyes. Eventually, he’s snoring, asleep at last, and Feuilly rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, biting his lip.

He’s an observant sort of person—it comes with being usually reduced to just someone in the background, seeing things that most others are usually too preoccupied to notice. Sometimes he wonders if there’s more to the others than what meets the eye—a little over half of them are currently single, but he’s witnessed Grantaire and Jehan exchanging heart eyes more often than they’d probably care to admit, if the topic ever happens to arise. Then there’s whatever Éponine and Enjolras have going on between them, which might be even more perplexing—they’re always either at each other’s throats or getting along like fire and gasoline, no in between whatsoever. At least, nothing that Feuilly’s noticed thus far.

Maybe he should start observing Courfeyrac and Combeferre too.

* * *

As it turns out, Éponine indeed turns out to be a bed-hogger, what with the way she sleeps, legs outstretched and arms all over the place. This proves to be a problem, considering how she’s currently burdened with the unfortunate affliction of having to share a bed with Enjolras, who is, as she puts it, “a six-foot _monster_ ”.

The morning sunlight is streaming in through cracks in the indigo curtains when Enjolras wakes up, and the first thing he perceives is a slender leg thrown over his waist all the way down to his thighs and dread in the pit of his stomach at the funny feeling that he’ll fall off with one tiny wrong movement. As slowly as he can, he turns his head to the other side to be greeted by the sight of a sleeping, snoring Éponine mere inches away from his face.

Her eyes are shut, eyelashes fluttering every now and then, and one arm is thrown over her head, the tiniest hint of drool dribbling out a corner of her mouth. Her chest rises and falls with steady breaths, snoring softly; he catches a glimpse of how one of the sleeves of the T-shirt he’s lent her is sliding down her shoulder, exposing one bra strap, and her hair looks absolutely _horrendous_ , all tousled and falling into her face. (Enjolras can only imagine how much worse it must have been back before she got her hair cut.) One of her bare legs is draped over Enjolras, the other nearly dangling off the bed, and he can feel one of her arms pressed against his forehead as his face flushes red at how he can just _see_ her lacy panties, her shirt (technically his) having ridden up her waist; once again, he wonders how on earth a woman so small can take up _so much space_.

Éponine stirs slightly, lets out a snore of the more grotesque kind and shifts in her sleep, and it sends Enjolras tumbling to the carpeted floor with a yelp.

Éponine yells out instinctively at the commotion and sits bolt upright in bed, dark eyes wild and frantic as she looks around for the source of the noise. Eventually, her eyes land on Enjolras lying on the floor beside their bed, his face contorted in pain and absolute discomfort, and she crawls over to peer at him over the edge of the mattress.

Her eyes are wide, caught completely off-guard. “What the fuck?”

“‘I’m sorry’ would suffice,” Enjolras deadpans, making no effort to move his limbs.

“I can’t apologise if I don’t know what I did, smartass,” Éponine is quick to shoot back, rolling her eyes. She rolls her eyes a lot, Enjolras has noticed.

He just narrows his eyes, brow furrowing, and stares at her incredulously. “First of all, you knocked me off the bed.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry for that,” Éponine says, and despite the way she says it, all flippant and dismissive, Enjolras can somehow tell that she’s being sincere. Maybe it’s the way her eyes soften as she dangles her arms over the edge of the bed.

Enjolras groans and attempts to prop himself up on one elbow, rubbing his head as a dull sort of pain goes shooting through his temple. “How the _hell_ do you take up so much space on the bed? You’re _tiny_.”

“Mention my height again and someone’s getting their ball-sack ripped off!” Éponine threatens in an unnervingly cheerful manner as she jumps off the bed, walking around it to help Enjolras to his feet. He accepts the hand she offers him gratefully, albeit somewhat reluctantly, given how she’s prone to going from being helpful and tolerable and almost _cute_ (not that he’d ever admit it to her face) to an annoying little shit who wouldn’t let him catch a break in the span of three seconds.

“Do you think we woke them up?” Éponine questions, evidently referring to Grantaire and Jehan. A quick glance at the other bed immediately tells them that no, they didn’t.

Éponine’s jaw hangs open as her eyes land on Grantaire and Jehan, somehow both still asleep despite the ruckus from her and Enjolras’ little spat, but what’s even more fucking unbelievable to her is the fact that they’re _spooning_ , Jehan’s face buried in Grantaire’s shoulder and one leg thrown over the brunet’s waist, his other leg entangled with Grantaire’s. It’s kind of hard to tell where Jehan’s limbs end and Grantaire’s begin, with how tightly the former is clinging onto the latter in his sleep, and Enjolras just stares in disbelief at the sight while Éponine comes to her senses, her lips curving into a dangerous little smirk. Without a word, she immediately goes over to the nightstand between the two beds to grab her phone and snap a picture.

“Éponine, what the hell.” Enjolras’ tone of voice is incredulous, almost appalled, as the girl in question moves around the other bed to capture different angles of Grantaire and Jehan cuddling in their sleep, barely able to stifle her hysterical fits of giggles as she does so.

She looks up upon hearing Enjolras, a loony grin on her face. “What? This is some _quality_ blackmail material right there.”

“’Ponine, blackmail is—you shouldn’t—you can’t just—it’s _really_ not—Jesus Christ.” Enjolras just sighs and gives up, seeing no possible way of talking Éponine out of collecting blackmail material on Grantaire.

(Oh, this is definitely only blackmail material on Grantaire. Nobody with a heart would ever even think of blackmailing Jehan.)

Once she’s satisfied herself with the photographs, Éponine places her phone on the nightstand once again and steps back to stand beside Enjolras as they just stand there watching the other two peacefully sleeping. “Christ, these two would probably sleep through the apocalypse,” Éponine mutters, stalking over to Grantaire’s side of the bed and stooping down beside him so they’d be at eye level, her face mere inches from his.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks, dubious as he watches Éponine just crouching there beside the bed, much like a predator preparing to pounce.

“Be quiet,” Éponine hisses in response. “Let’s see how long it takes for him to wake up.”

After approximately seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds—yes, Enjolras counted—Grantaire’s green eyes slowly blink open and widen in alarm upon seeing Éponine just staring at him, her face inches away from his.

“What the _fuck_?!” He lets out a yell, startling Jehan awake, who immediately detaches himself from Grantaire out of reflex as they both sit up in bed, tangled in the sheets. Éponine jumps to her feet and nearly dies of laughter, clutching her stomach as she struggles to catch a breath in between fits of hysterical giggles while Grantaire glares at her, as intense a glare as he can possibly muster, while waiting for her laughter to die down with his arms crossed across his chest. Jehan just blinks in confusion, attempting to rub the sleep out of his eyes with his fists, and he eventually looks to Enjolras questioningly, to which the golden-haired man just replies with an exasperated shrug of his shoulders.

“God, that look on your face was— _fuck_ , that shit was _priceless_ ,” Éponine finally manages to choke out in between fits of laughter as her giggles slowly deteriorate, somehow managing to compose herself. She straightens up, sitting on the bed she and Enjolras are sharing and swinging her legs over the edge, palms planted firmly on the mattress as she looks at Grantaire with a toothy grin on her face.

“Never do that again,” Grantaire mutters as he slides off the bed, stumbling slightly, and goes to grab clothes out of his suitcase before stalking off into the bathroom without another word.

Jehan just sits there, completely at a loss, and he asks, “So what did we miss?”

“Nothing much, other than the fact that little miss sunshine over here shoved me off the bed in her sleep.” Enjolras stares pointedly at Éponine, who sticks out her tongue in response.

“Oh, fuck off, I _said_ I was sorry,” she retorts, crossing her arms across her chest. “And it wasn’t on purpose.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Enjolras goes over to grab some fresh clothes to change into out of his suitcase, and somehow, he can just _feel_ Éponine glaring daggers at him while he has his back to her. Sighing, he straightens up and asks, “She’s flipping me off, isn’t she?”

“No, I’m not,” Éponine denies behind him.

Simultaneously, Jehan replies, “Yes, she is.”

* * *

The first thing Musichetta hears when she wakes up is a crash that seems to be coming from the bathroom followed by a muffled shout that sounds very much like Bossuet in pain.

She’s about to sit bolt upright in bed and sprint into the bathroom as quickly as humanly possible before she’s restrained by Joly’s firm grip on her, his arms wrapping themselves tighter around her waist as she struggles to pry herself out of his hold. “Joly, babe, I think Bossuet’s hurt,” she whispers in an attempt to push him off of him, only to be met with a whine as Joly buries his face in her stomach.

“No,” he mumbles petulantly, holding onto Musichetta. “Stay here.”

“Honey, I think he fell,” she replies, trying her best to stay patient. “Our boyfriend. Our Bossuet. I should probably go see if he’s okay.”

“Mmf.” Joly reluctantly loosens his grip on Musichetta, just enough for her to slip out of his arms and dart into the bathroom. She finds Bossuet sprawled out on the floor, face contorted in pain as he tries to find something to hold onto as he attempts to get back to his feet.

“Hey, you okay?” Musichetta fell to her knees beside Bossuet’s figure, taking his hand in hers and kissing it tenderly. “What happened?”

“I may have slipped on a wet patch,” Bossuet mumbles sheepishly in response, biting his lip. “Just got out of the shower.”

Ah. Figures, with how he’s sporting nothing but a towel wrapped hastily around his waist.

“Okay, come on. Up we go.” Musichetta helps Bossuet to his feet, guiding him out of the bathroom and onto the carpeted floor of their hotel room, watching as he goes over to grab clothes out of his suitcase. She goes to sit down beside Joly, who’s mashed his face into a pillow and seems to be mumbling incoherently into it.

“Hey. Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.” She prods Joly’s back only for her hand to be smacked away as he buries his face further in the pillow, letting out an absolutely _unearthly_ groan from deep in his throat.

Rolling her eyes, Musichetta turns to Bossuet. “What do I do?”

He shrugs as he pulls on a pair of khaki shorts, replying, “I don’t know, turn on some music to wake him up? That usually works. Try ABBA. He’s a sucker for ABBA.”

“Aren’t we all?” Musichetta points out before bending over to grab her bluetooth speaker out of her backpack, situated right near the side of the bed, and she wastes no time in positioning the speaker next to Joly’s head, his face still buried in a pillow, before blasting “Waterloo” at full volume and bracing herself for what’s to happen. He yelps and sits bolt upright, nearly falling out of bed as he presses a hand to his heart, breathing heavily, eyes wildly darting about, frantically taking in his surroundings.

“Oh, my God,” he breathes out, attempting to muster a look of irritation at a cackling Musichetta and only succeeding in looking even more precious than he already is, crossing his arms across his chest indignantly and pursing his lips. “Don’t _do_ that! Stop ruining my favourite song for me!”

“How else were we supposed to wake you up?” Bossuet goes over to sit down at the edge of the bed and press a kiss to Joly’s cheek, grinning in amusement when he’s given a sour look in return.

“You gotta admit, it was pretty funny,” Musichetta chimes in, her cackles slowly beginning to die down.

“No, it wasn’t,” Joly denies in a childishly stubborn manner that nearly sets Musichetta off again. It takes everything in her to contain another fit of giggles.

“It kind of was,” Bossuet goads, the grin on his face growing ever wider. “Come on, you know it was.”

It takes a while—a while being approximately seven seconds—before Joly’s pout eventually morphs into a hesitant grin as he admits slowly, “Maybe a little bit.”

“That’s the spirit!” Musichetta grabs him by the hand and pulls him off the bed, leading him in a lively dance around the hotel room as Bossuet picks up the wireless speaker and places it on the nightstand before going to join them, the three of them dancing around to ABBA as laughter echoes through the room. Just the three of them—Musichetta donning nothing but one of Joly’s T-shirts, Joly in a purple gingham robe that’s obviously been hastily thrown on at some point last night, and Bossuet half-dressed in khakis, dancing their hearts out to ABBA and singing along incredibly off-key. It takes Joly a while before he notices his phone on the nightstand lighting up with new unread texts.

Still singing, he dances his way over to the nightstand to pick his phone up as Musichetta and Bossuet take to jumping on the bed, Bossuet nearly hitting his head on the ceiling at one point, and Joly finds that Grantaire’s been spamming him with texts for the past ten minutes or so.

**rated r [beer mug emoji]: r u awake**

**rated r [beer mug emoji]: WAKE UP!!!!!!!!!!!**

**rated r [beer mug emoji]: where r uuuuuuuuuuu**

**rated r [beer mug emoji]: if i find out ur fucking b and m rn im gonna fucking kill u**

**rated r [beer mug emoji]: ok i assume ur not doing that**

**rated r [beer mug emoji]: judging by ur lack of replies**

**rated r [beer mug emoji]: AUGUSTE JOLY IM GONNA KICK UR ASS IF U DONT WAKE UP RIGHT NOW**

**rated r [beer mug emoji]: ………………be glad i forgot ur hotel room number**

**rated r [beer mug emoji]: R U SRSLY STILL SLEEPING**

**rated r [beer mug emoji]: WAKE UP JACKASS**

**rated r [beer mug emoji]: dammit**

**rated r [beer mug emoji]: meet us in the lobby in 15 min**

**rated r [beer mug emoji]: if u and b and m rn’t there by then we’ll just leave w/o u**

Alarmed, Joly checks the timestamps on the last two texts Grantaire sent him—they were sent three minutes ago.

Meaning he, Bossuet, and Musichetta have approximately twelve minutes to get ready and still be downstairs in time so the others won’t fucking _abandon_ them.

Attempting to raise his voice, Joly calls out, “So, um, we may have only about twelve minutes to get ready and be downstairs before the others leave us.”

Musichetta lets herself fall onto the mattress into a cross-legged sitting position, a look of contemplation occupying her face. After a while, she suggests with a lewd little grin on her face, “Well, nothing saves time like a joint shower, right?”

* * *

“Seriously, dude. Just get rid of the fucking hat.”

Éponine makes a face at the sight of Courfeyrac donning his godawful cowboy hat yet again that morning, lounging about on a loveseat as Courfeyrac sits perched on the arm. He crosses his arms across his chest and narrows his eyes at Éponine, vehemently shaking his head and sticking his tongue out at her.

“Fuck _off_ ,” he retorts as Combeferre approaches them, taking a seat in the armchair adjacent to the loveseat Éponine is currently splayed across.

They’re all sitting about in the lobby, waiting for Bahorel, Feuilly, Marius, and Cosette to come downstairs, some debating between themselves about where to go that day. Grantaire’s established early on that they’re to be visiting the Shedd Aquarium first thing that morning before they go from there, so they’re just waiting for the remaining four to show up before catching a bus to the aquarium, to go geek out over the fish. They’ll decide where to go from there.

Éponine frowns and throws a leg over Courfeyrac’s lap as she puts her headphones on, blasting Britney Spears and humming along to the music as she taps her foot against Courfeyrac’s thigh, smirking at the peevish look on his face because of it. She doesn’t notice Enjolras standing behind her and repeatedly saying her name until he taps her on the shoulder, causing her to yank off her headphones and nearly lash out at him for disturbing her before seeing that it’s just him.

“What do you want?” she asks a little too snippily, headphones encircling her neck.

“No need to be so hostile,” Enjolras replies, cocking his head and giving her a look, exasperation written all over his face. “May I sit down?”

Éponine’s about to come up with a cutting retort that there are probably plenty of other seats to be taken in the lobby before she actually looks around, finding that the rest of the Amis have taken every other seat in what she’s come to consider their part of the lobby, so begrudgingly, she sits up straight and scoots over to allow Enjolras some space on the loveseat, nearly shoving Courfeyrac off in the process.

Enjolras gives her a grateful, genuine little smile as he sits down beside her. “Thank you.”

Éponine manages to crack a smile in return, lightly nudging him as her little smile breaks out into a grin. “Don’t mention it.”

Courfeyrac crosses his arms across his chest petulantly and pouts, sniffing, “Well, it seems like I’m not wanted here anymore.”

Éponine turns to look at him, giving him the loveliest smile she can possibly muster and saying sweetly, “Oh, honey, you never were in the first place.”

Courfeyrac glares and screws up his face at Éponine as he goes over to take a seat in Combeferre’s lap, much to the bespectacled man’s utter confusion. “What—what are you doing?”

“There’s no other place to sit in our area,” Courfeyrac reasons, looking over his shoulder to glare at Éponine and missing the disoriented look that flits across Combeferre’s face for a fleeting second. Looking back at Combeferre, Courfeyrac asks, “You don’t mind, right?”

“Um…” Combeferre furrows his brow and considers the position he’s in—sitting in an armchair with Courfeyrac on top of him, sitting sideways in his lap with his legs dangling over one of the arms of the chair. Sighing, Combeferre relents and says, “I guess I don’t, go right ahead.”

Courfeyrac flashes him an impish grin and rumples Combeferre’s hair. “Thanks, babe. You rock.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes but still catches himself attempting to stifle a smile to the best of his ability, going back to reading whatever it was he had been reading on his Kindle, positioning himself in such a manner so Courfeyrac won’t be in the way despite taking up all the space in his lap, going so far as to rest his head on Combeferre’s shoulder.

Éponine looks over at them and coos, a shit-eating grin stretching across her face. “Aww, look at the cute couple.”

Courfeyrac sticks up his middle finger in Éponine’s direction. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Raising her eyebrows, Éponine questions, “And why is that, exactly?”

“He’s talking about you and Enjy, Ep,” Musichetta calls out from across them as if it’s obvious, her small body draped across both Joly and Bossuet. “Just look at you two.”

Éponine scoffs. “Excuse me, we are in no way in a couple-y position, as opposed to those two fuckers over there.” She vaguely gestures in Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s direction, rolling her eyes.

Enjolras presses his lips together, cheeks heating up at the implications in Musichetta’s and Courfeyrac’s words and how Éponine’s legs are draped all over his lap, seeming to have chosen to think of him as merely an extension of the loveseat they’re on. Her posture is horrific, legs draped all over Enjolras’ lap and dangling over one arm of the loveseat while her back is nearly completely pressed against the cushions, head leaning against the other armrest of the loveseat. He can’t imagine how awful that must be for her neck.

Feuilly appears in the lobby moments later, soon followed by Marius and Cosette, and it takes Bahorel a total of seven and a half more minutes to actually come downstairs and join them, which is when Combeferre finally stands up after Courfeyrac dramatically slides off his lap.

Whistling to catch everyone’s attention, Combeferre asks, “Should we go check out the aquarium?”

* * *

Fact: watching Jehan Prouvaire fawn over the colourful fish at the aquarium as they explore the exhibits and trek through tunnels is undoubtedly the most adorable thing in the fucking universe, at least according to Grantaire.

They’ve been at the aquarium for about a half hour now, having been there since nine in the morning, and it quickly became apparent within the first five minutes of them being there that Jehan is the kind of person who ignores everyone else in favour of looking at the marine animals at aquariums. Just fifteen minutes prior, they had the opportunity of seeing one of the numerous indoor aquatic shows the aquarium offers, this particular one consisting of dolphins, and Jehan had been on the edge of his scene throughout the entire show, blue eyes wide with wonder as he fixated on the dolphins. It’s pretty adorable, actually, to see how much he’s enjoying himself as they all go about the aquarium in their odd little tight-knit group.

They’re currently taking their time in walking down a tunnel, watching fish swim past and listening to Combeferre offhandedly read the little facts about the different fish off the plaques lining the tunnel out loud, mostly to himself. Marius and Cosette have fixated on the fish swimming above their heads, Marius’ attention having been captured entirely by a ray that Combeferre identifies as a bat ray while Cosette giggles and takes sneaky pictures of Marius when he’s not looking, as his green eyes follow the ray’s movements, undisguised childlike wonder written all over his face. Courfeyrac is currently practically pressing his face to the glass, eyes searching for sharks, and Éponine seems to have decided that she’ll buddy up with Enjolras while they’re at the aquarium, the two of them walking together and engaged in (surprisingly civil) conversation about the various fish they’re currently looking at, Enjolras listening patiently—as patiently as he can, anyway—while Éponine makes fun of the others. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are busy taking pictures together while Feuilly is a little bit ahead of the others, wandering the tunnel aimlessly and watching a shark glide past above his head. Bahorel’s observing the rays swimming past, watching the way they flap about in amusement and occasionally taking photographs through the glass.

Jehan, meanwhile, seems to be having the absolute time of his life, all starry-eyed as he watches schools of fish swimming past before his very eyes, mesmerised by the colours reflected in their scales and transfixed by the angel shark that gracefully glides past, a massive dorky smile on his face as he presses his hands against the glass. The mere sight of it evokes a smile from Grantaire before he mentally reprimands himself for being so mushy; he’s not the kind of person to act like this, thinking this way about a friend.

He approaches Jehan to go stand by him, the two of them standing side by side before the glass as schools of fish flurry past. They stay there like that for a while, just standing with each other in comfortable silence and watching the fish.

“Isn’t it pretty?” Jehan remarks dreamily after a while, having long since noticed Grantaire standing there. “I love aquariums.”

“Ep mentioned how she really wants to see a tiger shark,” Grantaire replies, because apparently this is his thing now, acting like an absolute dumbass and spewing ridiculous word vomit whenever he talks to Jehan. He just changed the subject in one of the most awkward ways possible, and he holds his breath, hoping Jehan won’t notice.

To his immense relief, Jehan just smiles even more at his words and says, “Ooh, yes! I prefer looking at the rays, though.” He gazes at one particular eagle ray, spotted and soaring above the rest, and Grantaire can hear the smile in his voice as he comments, “They’re like…” He pauses, struggling for the words before he exclaims, “Sea pancakes! Big, majestic sea pancakes.”

A laugh escapes Grantaire at how proud Jehan looks of himself at his analogy, extremely pleased by his own words. Grantaire’s gaze drifts off to see a different spotted eagle ray approaching, and he says, “Hey, want to take a picture with a sea pancake?”

He can barely contain his laughter as Jehan turns around so his back will be to the glass, beaming at the camera and laughing all the while as Grantaire snaps pictures of him with the ray and fish in the background. Once they’ve gotten that over with, they just content themselves to stand there and watch the fish drift past before Combeferre calls out that they’ve spent enough time in the tunnel and should really get going.

“There’s a rescued green sea turtle in the Caribbean Reef exhibit,” Jehan notes aloud as he walks beside Grantaire down the tunnel, looking down at his phone after having pulled up the aquarium’s website online. Looking up, he calls out, “Can we go there?”

Courfeyrac straightens his hat and takes a running start before leaping onto Combeferre’s back, catching him off-guard and leading him to stumble. Once he’s regained his balance, Combeferre looks over his shoulder at Courfeyrac and hisses, “What the hell are you doing?”

Courfeyrac promptly ignores Combeferre’s question, raising an arm into the air and declaring, “To the Caribbean Reef we go!”

Combeferre sighs and relents, walking forward with Courfeyrac piggybacking on him and leading the others in their trek to the Caribbean Reef exhibit, which Jehan finds out from the website is a 90,000-gallon tank.

Looking down at his phone, he says, “They have daily presentation dives there, a diver goes in to feed the fish.”

Grantaire, still walking beside Jehan, looks over the ginger’s shoulder at his phone and grins. “Noice.”

“Do you think we’ll get to see it?” Jehan looks up from his phone to glance over at Grantaire, blue eyes sparkling.

Grantaire shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I think it depends on our timing.”

Jehan hums to himself as they all walk together towards the Caribbean Reef exhibit, miraculously managing not to crash into anyone while he’s staring down at his phone while walking. After a while, he coos out loud and holds the phone closer to Grantaire’s face.

“Look! They have sea otters at the Abbott Oceanarium,” Jehan exclaims in delight, an elated smile on his face as he watches Grantaire for his reaction. “Aren’t they adorable?”

“Yeah, especially compared to river otters,” Grantaire remarks, pulling out his own phone to pull up a picture of a river otter right next to a sea otter. At the mildly disturbed look on Jehan’s face at the sight of how feral the river otter looks, Grantaire’s quick to grow slightly flustered, laughing nervously and commenting, “It’s like someone described what an otter looks like to two different artists who both have _really_ different ideas of what it’s supposed to look like.”

Jehan cracks a smile. “Yeah, it does.”

“Who gives a shit about sea otters? I just want to see a tiger shark.” They both jump at the sound of Éponine’s voice, turning their heads to find that she’s fallen into step next to Grantaire, Enjolras a little under two feet away from her and seeming to be lost in his own thoughts, looking around at the numerous exhibits they pass.

“You’ve never seen one?” Jehan asks, brow furrowing.

Éponine shakes her head. “Nope,” she replies, popping the ‘p’. “Don’t tell me what they look like, I want to see for myself.”

“They’re really not that impressive,” Enjolras says beside her, just loud enough for her to hear.

Jehan and Grantaire exchange looks of amusement as Éponine looks up at Enjolras, narrowing her eyes at him. “Are you sure? I mean, they’re _tiger_ sharks! They’re probably the coolest fucking kind of sharks out there, I want to see one. I mean, _tiger_ sharks…” She breathes out an exhilarated sigh, shaking her head and grinning. “Mother Nature probably really went wild with that one.”

Enjolras cracks a tight-lipped smile. It irritates Éponine how he looks like he knows something she doesn’t.

Grantaire looks at Jehan, who looks like he’s struggling to stifle his giggles at Éponine’s words, before he looks back at the girl in question. He reaches out to ruffle her hair before she looks up at him and scowls at the gesture. “Don’t do that.”

“You’re adorable when you’re clueless,” Grantaire responds candidly, a shit-eating grin on his face.

Éponine stiffens. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, jackass?”

Jehan reaches around Grantaire’s back to pat Éponine on the shoulder. “Ignore him, he’s just being an idiot.”

“You’ll see for yourself,” Grantaire interjects, his lips curled into a devilish grin. “Just wait.”

* * *

Éponine falls back against the wall of the elevator and lets out a dispirited sigh, crossing her arms across her chest and frowning to herself as Enjolras goes to stand by her, the rest of the Amis being crammed into the elevator that’ll take them up to the observation deck of the Sears Tower with them. They’ve just gotten there after a boat tour down the Chicago River and a visit to the Art Institute of Chicago as well as lunch at a pizzeria in the Chicago Loop, where they all tried Chicago deep-dish pizza for the first time.

Enjolras feels as if he’s the only one who’s noticed how Éponine has been rather quiet ever since they left the aquarium earlier at eleven o’clock, which is uncharacteristic of her, considering how she usually has a lot to say. That’s one thing they have in common, he’s realised—they both have quite a lot to say. Maybe that’s why they butt heads so often.

It’s around five in the afternoon now, six full hours after they left the aquarium, and Éponine is still quiet, a look of disappointment on her face that’s been there since they went to see the sharks at the aquarium ever present. He knows full well the reason for that disappointed look, having been there when it first appeared on her face, and as the elevator speeds upwards towards the 103rd floor, he leans sideways, down and closer to her.

“Is everything all right?” he asks quietly, concerned.

Éponine shrugs, lips pressed tightly together. “I’m fine. Other than the fact that I’ve been _betrayed_ , I’m fine.”

Enjolras sighs and steps a little bit closer to her. “’Ponine, what did you think a tiger shark was?”

She looks up at him and shoots him the coldest glare she can possibly muster. “Don’t make fun of me!”

“I’m not,” Enjolras says, calm as can be. “I’m just asking a question. It’s fine if you don’t want to answer it.”

“Good, because I don’t.” Éponine crosses her arms across her chest even more and scowls, closing in on herself as they feel the pressure changing while the elevator moves upwards.

“Well, on the bright side, we’re going to the Skydeck,” Enjolras reminds her. For some reason, he feels as if he owes her something, that he should cheer her up. “You mentioned how you wanted to go there and make it look like you’re falling so you can take pictures to send to your siblings, to fuck with them.”

Éponine looks up at him with a curious smile on her face, surprised at how he quoted her almost verbatim. “You remember?”

A faint pink blush rises to Enjolras’ cheeks. “Well, yes. Look, do we have a smile over there?”

Éponine swats at his arm, though that little smile is still present on her face. “Shut the fuck up.”

Enjolras has just opened his mouth to respond when the elevator doors slide open and everyone else begins to file out, leaving him with no choice but to follow them out as Éponine does the same, going so far as to grab his arm while they all trudge into the observation deck, instantly noticing the tourists gathered near the glass balconies, taking pictures. There’s one a little to the side that isn’t quite as crowded as the rest, which of course they all immediately approach, and Joly is quick to hold Bossuet back when Musichetta walks out on top of the glass like it’s nobody’s business and sits down in a corner, looking down at the streets far below.

“There’s no way we’re going to go stand there,” Joly insists when Bossuet gives him an incredulous look. “Too high up. Glass could crack. We could fall. We die.”

“Don’t be such a wuss, babe, it’s perfectly safe,” Musichetta calls out as Cosette goes to sit by her, soon followed by Éponine. Feuilly takes it as his cue to snap a picture of the three of them together on the ledge, flashing big grins at the camera and striking ridiculous little poses, seemingly unfazed by the distance between them and the ground.

“I beg to differ,” Joly responds, biting his lip as he watches Grantaire go to sit beside Éponine, who’s moved to the other corner of the box.

“Then beg,” Musichetta deadpans, cocking her head and giving him a look.

“Back in 2014, the glass covering the floor of one of these boxes broke while people were sitting on it!” Joly cries out, his distress increasing right up until Bossuet loops a soothing arm around his shoulders. Regaining a little of his composure, he says, “I looked it up.”

“So? What’s life without taking a few risks?” Musichetta points out, resting her head on Cosette’s shoulder, who’s leaning against the glass as Marius takes a seat on her other side.

Joly’s just about to open his mouth to reply when Bossuet shushes him, pressing a hand over his mouth. “There’s no getting her out of this, buddy,” he tells Joly, clicking his tongue. “If it matters that much to you, I’ll stay here with you, off the glass.”

Joly turns his head towards Bossuet and gives him a grateful smile, pressing a kiss of gratitude to his cheek. “Thanks.”

It’s not long until Marius and Cosette get up to allow the others some space in the box, Musichetta getting up soon after to go back to Joly and Bossuet while Éponine and Grantaire are still huddled in one corner of the box, staring through the glass floor at the streets below.

Combeferre’s too busy looking around at the other throngs of tourists to notice Courfeyrac bouncing up and down impatiently beside him until he feels Courfeyrac smack him in the arm, turning around to find him fuming and practically emitting steam, stupid cowboy hat still perched atop his curls. “What is it?”

“Come on, let’s go into one of the boxes.” It’s more of a command than an invitation, really, and Combeferre has no choice but to follow Courfeyrac into a currently vacant glass box after he grabs him by the wrist and forcibly pulls him along, with much difficulty, due to how Combeferre’s initially resistant, tensing up in place and refusing to move. His breath hitches in his throat once his feet are on the glass, completely frozen in place by the time Courfeyrac lets go of his wrist.

It takes him a few moments before he notices how Combeferre’s tensed up entirely, not moving at all as he stands stiff on the glass, and Courfeyrac turns around and gives him a curious look. “Are you okay?”

“Just peachy,” Combeferre replies. It’s obvious his teeth are clenched.

“No, you’re not.” Courfeyrac steps closer to him, genuine concern in his dark eyes as he takes off his hat and grasps it in his hand, his other hand reaching out to gently grip Combeferre’s arm. He looks down at the glass floor below their feet and looks back up just in time to see Combeferre flinch.

Realisation dawns on Courfeyrac’s face as he thinks back to how Combeferre resisted going along with him into the glass box at first, all tense, and how he’s frozen in place now, seeming to have lost the ability to move. “You’re afraid of heights,” Courfeyrac realises out loud, eyes wide at this revelation.

Combeferre presses his lips tightly together as a tight expression of dread appears on his face, expecting Courfeyrac to burst out laughing at him. He’s stunned beyond belief when instead, Courfeyrac is quick to firmly grab him by the hand and drag him back into the building, which is when he really lets himself breathe, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

“You could’ve told me, you know,” Courfeyrac tells him in a low voice, nudging him slightly with his elbow. “I wouldn’t’ve forced you to come out onto the ledge with me if I knew.”

He’s not blaming Combeferre, from what the man in question can tell from his tone of voice; if anything, it seems like he’s rather annoyed at himself for not considering that possibility.

“Just—” Courfeyrac pauses, struggling for the right words; he’s never been quite as eloquent as Enjolras is, in all the eighteen years he’s known him and Combeferre. “Tell me if you’re uncomfy with something, _please_. I don’t want to drag you into something you’re not comfortable with.”

Combeferre manages a somewhat sardonic smile. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Courfeyrac puts his hat back on and swats at Combeferre’s arm again. “I’m trying to be _empathetic_ , and this is how you treat me?”

Combeferre laughs, sliding an arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulders without a second thought. “No, really. I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

A few moments of silence pass between them before curiosity gets the better of Courfeyrac. “You really wanted to be an astronaut when we were kids, didn’t you? How are you supposed to do that if you have a fear of heights?”

Combeferre turns his head and gives him a wry smile. “Precisely why I didn’t end up pursuing astronautics. Besides, don’t most kids want to become astronauts at some point anyway? Space travel is fascinating.”

“Yeah, I guess. Good thing we’re going to the planetarium after this, then.” Courfeyrac lets out a low whistle, gaze drifting off and settling on how Éponine’s splayed out on the glass floor of one of the boxes, Grantaire taking numerous pictures of her while she poses to make it look like she’s falling, Enjolras occasionally stealing glances at Éponine off to the side while he and Feuilly stand before the glass walls of the very same box, looking out at the city below. That particular detail is what captures his attention, and he grabs Combeferre’s arm.

Combeferre gives him an odd look. “What is it?”

“Remember how I mentioned how Enjy might have a crush on dear Éponine yesterday?” When Combeferre slowly nods yes, Courfeyrac points in the direction of the glass box the pair in question are occupying, pointing out how Enjolras steals what he probably thinks are subtle glances at Éponine every now and again, when he thinks nobody is looking.

Combeferre brushes it off, shaking his head. “He’s probably just making sure she’s not still upset about the tiger shark thing,” he points out. “She did have a bit of a meltdown when she found out they weren’t tiger/shark hybrids, after all.”

Courfeyrac snorts at the absolute absurdity of that statement, wondering how on earth Combeferre manages to say it while keeping a straight face. “Whatever you say, honey.”

He’s oblivious to how Combeferre turns the faintest shade of pink at the instinctive nickname.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey i'm not dead! i am, however, starting school this wednesday, so i apologise in advance if updates become slower than they already are. i'm writing my ass off, but it'll take quite a bit of time (especially since the chapters of this fic are getting longer with each update, oops). thanks for sticking by me, i really appreciate it!


	5. the stars were burning so bright, the sun was out till midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have another absurdly long update, for your enjoyment :3 (these updates just keep getting longer and longer........ good lord)
> 
> chapter content warning: references to recreational drug use (specifically, weed.) (actual recreational drug use is likely to show up in further chapters. it won't be a lot, but it'll be there, so i'll be sure to add the appropriate tags warning for it once it does.)

* * *

“Goodbye, Chicago!” Courfeyrac hollers dramatically out the open window as he drives the minivan onto the interstate, Marius and Cosette having fallen asleep in the backseat while Combeferre stares out the window as he sits beside Courfeyrac, having claimed shotgun. “Until we meet again!”

They’d checked out of the hotel earlier at exactly one o’clock earlier that afternoon, and if it weren’t for Bahorel insisting on going out to buy new clothes and subsequently losing track of time in the midst of their shopping spree that quickly spiralled out of control, they would have checked out much earlier to take off down to Kentucky, on their way to Mammoth Cave National Park. At this rate, they’ll be arriving there once the tours of the caverns have ended and they’ll have to camp out on one of the park’s campgrounds overnight and _wait_ until the next fucking morning to actually go explore the caverns with a tour guide.

Courfeyrac rolls the window further down, feeling the cool rush of wind against his face, and he sighs happily at the breeze while Gwen Stefani plays in the background, sunlight streaming in through the windows. He can see Combeferre bobbing his head in time to “Hollaback Girl” out of the corner of his eye and can’t help but smirk rather triumphantly, especially with how he initially turned up his nose when Courfeyrac first turned on Gwen Stefani.

_“Uh-huh, this my shit, all the girls stomp your feet like this! A few times I’ve been around that track so it’s not just gonna happen like that, ’cause I ain’t no hollaback girl, I ain’t no hollaback girl…”_

They’re twenty minutes into the drive, Combeferre humming along to “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” after Cosette woke up and changed the music, when Courfeyrac finally speaks, asking, “So is this going to be a thing now?”

Combeferre turns his head to look at him through a furrowed brow. “What do you mean?”

“You riding with us,” Courfeyrac clarifies. “I mean, didn’t R assign you to the van?”

Combeferre shrugs, reaching up to absently brush some hair out of his face, elbow sticking out the rolled-down window just slightly. “I could use a break from them sometimes,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. “R and Chetta and Bahorel constantly arguing becomes a little too much after a while.”

Courfeyrac snorts. “Just how bad is it?”

“Awful,” Combeferre replies. “They yell at each other and everything. It’s impossible to get a moment’s peace with them around.”

“They can’t possibly be that bad,” they both hear Cosette murmuring from the backseat, hearing the lingering lethargy in her tone.

Combeferre lets out a wry laugh. “Oh, believe me, it gets that bad sometimes.”

“Eh, I guess wouldn’t really know.” Courfeyrac whistles along to the music a little bit while the minivan speeds down the interstate, right behind Éponine’s truck, which in turn is behind the van they rented, leading the whole lot. The sun is shining down upon them, not a cloud to be seen in the azure blue skies, and after another ten minutes had passed, he thinks aloud, “Wonder how the others are holding up…”

* * *

“You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life! Ooh, see that girl! Watch that scene! Diggin’ the dancing queen!”

They’re all positively screaming along to the music after Feuilly went and turned on some ABBA the moment he got into the driver’s seat, possibly to prevent everyone else yelling at Bahorel for losing track of time during their shopping spree and hindering them from getting on the road on time, instead leaving two hours later than they were supposed to, or maybe he just wanted to call dibs on the aux cord. Either way, it seems to have provided quite a distraction, as evidenced by the six other passengers of the van hollering out the lyrics to “Dancing Queen” and indeed seeming as if they’re having the time of their lives.

Feuilly’s bobbing his head and singing along the music, though he’s mainly listening to how Jehan takes the lead in the first verse of the song, rising above the rest and singing out, “Friday night and the lights are low…!”

“Looking out for a place to go!” Bahorel hollers back.

“Where they play the right music, getting in the swing, you come to look for a king!” Jehan shouts out.

“Anybody could be that guy!” Bossuet and Musichetta screech, both pointing to Joly with loony grins on their faces. “Night is young and the music’s high!”

“With a bit of rock music, everything is fine, you’re in the mood for a dance…,” Grantaire picks up where the other two left off.

Joly sings out, “And when you get the chance…”

Everyone else instantly jumps in, screaming along incredibly off-key to the music, “You are the dancing queen! Young and sweet! Only seventeen!”

The van races down the interstate as they all sing along to ABBA, and three songs later, Jehan falls back in his seat and lets Musichetta and Bossuet do all the singing while the others catch their breath, the two of them singing their hearts out to “Fernando” incredibly off-key. He lets out a breathless laugh, his head lolling back as he catches his breath. “Wow,” he sighs, turning his head to beam at Grantaire. “God, I haven’t had that much fun in so long.”

“You’re forgetting that karaoke night we had to celebrate the end of finals.” Grantaire finally sits back down, really sits back down, and inhales deeply, struggling to get oxygen back in his system. “Damn, you can really never go wrong with ABBA, huh?”

Jehan shakes his head, his enormous giddy smile taking up half his face. It’s the most adorable thing Grantaire’s ever seen.

“No, you really can’t,” Jehan agrees, brushing some hair out of his face and laughing. “It’s not your taste in music, it’s a way of life. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who doesn’t like ABBA.”

“I have,” Grantaire says, leaning back in his seat and combing his fingers through his hair in an attempt to flatten it slightly, so he won’t have his curls sticking out in every goddamn direction. “They all turned out to be straight, so I guess that explains things.”

Jehan bursts out laughing at Grantaire’s words, almost cackling, though Grantaire isn’t sure that that’s the exact word he’d use to describe Jehan’s gentle yet hearty laughter, almost bell-like. Whichever it is of the two, it’s heartwarming, the sound of Jehan laughing loudly—his laughter is like sunshine, warm and bright, unrestrained. It gets to the point where Bahorel turns around in his seat to shoot them both an odd, enquiring look, brow furrowed. Grantaire just smiles slightly and shrugs in response while Jehan’s laughter slowly begins to die down, finally, the ginger finally giving himself time to catch his breath and inhaling deeply.

“You’ve got a lot of energy in you today,” Grantaire notes aloud, narrowing his eyes curiously at Jehan.

“ABBA always gets me in the mood,” he explains with a breathless smile, gesturing to how Musichetta’s yelling out the words to “Kisses of Fire” as he speaks.

Grantaire can’t resist a grin at how adorable Jehan is being, wondering how the hell he manages to not make a complete ass out of himself each time he’s around the ginger, considering how he’s adorable one hundred percent of the time. “I feel that.”

Jehan throws his head back and laughs before he lets his head fall on Grantaire’s shoulder, giggling madly as Joly and Bossuet sing along—quite awfully, for that matter—to “Honey, Honey”, serenading each other as well as Musichetta, who merely grins in an irritatingly smug yet somehow earnest manner.

“How much longer until we get there?” Jehan calls out.

“Give or take six hours!” Feuilly calls back. “No thanks to Bahorel.”

“Fuck off, I know you’re all glad that I took you shopping for new clothes,” Bahorel retorts snippily. “God knows you needed it.”

“I take offence to that,” Grantaire deadpans, making a face at Bahorel behind his back. “I like the way I dress just fine, thanks.”

“Eh, if you say so.” Bahorel rolls his eyes and lets out a low, throaty laugh.

“If it’s any consolation, _I_ like the way you dress,” Jehan pipes up with that sunshine smile on his face, beaming happily at Grantaire.

His cheeks burn scarlet at Jehan’s words and he laughs somewhat nervously in response. “Really? Thanks.”

“It suits you,” Jehan comments, looking up and down at Grantaire’s choice of clothing for the day, consisting of a Panic! at the Disco T-shirt and ripped cut-off jean shorts. Nothing too elaborate; just the way he likes it for the summer.

Grantaire cracks a grin. “Thanks.”

Jehan giggles and smiles back at him before looking back out the window, watching the sprawling green fields roll past. “What do you think we’ll do once we get there?” he muses out loud.

“Find campgrounds and set up tents there,” Joly stops singing just long enough to reply to Jehan’s general question before he resumes wailing along to “Hasta Mañana” with Musichetta.

“Fuck yeah, we’re going camping!” Bossuet whoops, grinning from ear to ear.

“Is that why we packed tents?” Jehan questions, turning to Grantaire and cocking his head.

“Yep,” Grantaire confirms, popping the ‘p’. “We’re roughin’ it, baby.”

Jehan dissolves into a fit of giggles at the way Grantaire says that last sentence, setting Grantaire himself off at Jehan’s infectious laughter. It reaches a point where Bahorel turns around in his seat to give them both a weird look.

Jehan simply lets out a whoop of laughter and throws his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, joining Bossuet in singing “Angel Eyes” right after Joly, Musichetta, and Feuilly do, and Grantaire finds himself caught up in the manic energy of it all and the next thing he knows, he’s singing along with the rest of them.

“Look into his angel eyes! One look and you’re hypnotised! He’ll take your heart and you must pay the price… Look into his angel eyes; you’ll think you’re in paradise, and one day you’ll find out he wears a disguise… Don’t look too deep into those angel eyes, crazy ’bout his angel eyes…”

* * *

The first thing Enjolras hears upon waking up is the sound of Éponine singing. Really singing, not the yelling kind she does when she’s listening to a song she likes on the radio.

He blinks, somewhat staggered by the discovery that for once, there isn’t any music blaring from the stereo as per usual while Éponine sings to herself, tapping on the steering wheel to provide herself with a beat. Her voice is clear, sweet—much like she herself is during her more tolerable moments, Enjolras dryly muses—and she doesn’t seem to notice that he’s stirred, continuing to sing to herself as she drives on down the interstate, dutifully following the van. Enjolras finds himself listening to her singing, and though he’d never admit it to her face, he’s completely captivated by her voice.

What’s even more surprising is the fact that he recognises the song, it being one of his guilty pleasure shower songs, and after a few more moments pass, he decides to speak up, saying in a mildly teasing manner, “I didn’t think you were the kind of person to listen to Justin Bieber.”

Éponine stops short, eyes widening at the sound of Enjolras’ amused lilt, and her cheeks instantly burn red at being caught, and by the marble man, no less. “I don’t,” she denies flatly, biting her lip and internally cursing herself out.

Enjolras raises his eyebrows as he turns his head to give her a look. “You were just singing ‘Love Yourself’.”

“Yes, but I didn’t have the actual music for it playing, now, did I? I didn’t like the original song, so I put my own spin on it.” Éponine continues singing despite her initial embarrassment before she abruptly cuts herself off, turning her head to give Enjolras a suspicious look, eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed as she purses her lips. “How do _you_ know what the song’s called and who it’s by?”

Now it’s Enjolras’ turn to blush scarlet at being caught, spots of red blooming in his cheeks, and he’s at a loss for words. “I—it’s a fairly—it’s played on the—they still play this song on the radio a lot, don’t they? I mean—most people would know the song.”

“Just admit it, pretty boy.” The grin on Éponine’s face is petty evil personified as she gleefully guesses, “It’s your guilty pleasure song, isn’t it?”

“I could say the same about you,” Enjolras shoots back, managing to regain some of his composure.

“Yeah, fine, I admit it, but I want to hear _you_ say it,” Éponine eggs on, the evil grin on her face growing ever wider.

Enjolras sits there and stares at her in complete and utter incredulity for several moments before he sighs and relents, starting, “Fine, ‘Love Yourself’ is—”

“No, wait!” Éponine somehow manages to take her phone out of her pocket, unlock it, and pull up the voice memos app before setting it down on the dashboard, all while still keeping her eyes on the road, and she says, “Okay, now say ‘“Love Yourself” by Justin Bieber is my guilty pleasure song’.”

“Is this necessary?” Enjolras asks in annoyance as he eyes how Éponine hits record on her phone.

“Unless you want me to kick you off this truck, yes,” Éponine deadpans, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“What pleasure could you possibly derive from making a fool out of me?” Enjolras questions incredulously, grimacing at the sight that Éponine’s phone is _still_ recording his every word.

“I don’t know, it’s just oddly satisfying to know that the pretty boy marble man is human after all,” Éponine responds with a shrug of her shoulders. “You only need to say it once.”

“You’re going to blackmail me using this audio, aren’t you?” Enjolras groans, burying his face him his hands.

“Not if you stop being an ass to me all the time,” Éponine swiftly promises, though Enjolras doubts the authenticity of her statement. “Just hurry the fuck up and say it, damn it.”

“I’m not an ass to you,” Enjolras contradicts, rather affronted.

“Eh, you can be. You’re great sometimes, though. You’re cute when that pole’s not so far up your ass.” Éponine drums on the steering wheel impatiently, exclaiming, “Jesus fuck, just say it! I swear I won’t use it against you!”

Enjolras sighs, finally giving in and saying in a monotone, “‘Love Yourself’ by Justin Bieber is my guilty pleasure song.”

Éponine cackles in triumph and stops the recording, saving it before tucking her phone back into her pocket and grinning like an idiot as she drives on, resuming in her singing. Enjolras slumps down slightly in his seat, lips pressed tightly together as he listens to Éponine singing.

“My mama don’t like you, and she likes everyone; and I never liked to admit that I was wrong…”

At some point, Éponine stops singing to reach over and shove Enjolras slightly as she says, “Come on, sing with me, I know you want to.”

After several lengthy moments rife with hesitation, Enjolras begrudgingly relents and starts singing with her, the two of them starting over at the beginning. Surprisingly enough to the both of them, they get pretty into it, energy building up with each verse, and they’re singing together in perfect harmony once they reach the chorus.

“’Cause if you like the way you look that much, oh, baby, you should go and love yourself! And if you think that I’m still holding on to something, you should go and love yourself!”

They finally stop sometime later, catching their breath, and Éponine laughs at how into it Enjolras had gotten. If only she isn’t driving; she would have captured him singing a song by the Biebs on camera. That would have made for some quality blackmail material.

“I think you’re the kind of person who sings in the shower,” Éponine guesses aloud, looking over at Enjolras.

“Why, how did you know?” he deadpans, feigning quiet shock.

“Oh, I’m right?” Éponine looks back ahead at the road and grins to herself. “Of course I’m right. I always am.”

“Ha.” Enjolras lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head in amusement as he leans back in his seat, watching Éponine fiddle with one of the knobs on the stereo, switching through radio stations, much of the music playing indecipherable. Eventually, some song from what Éponine assumes is the 60’s that she vaguely recognises breaks through the scratchy static of the radio, and she scrunches up her face as she attempts to figure out what she recognises the song from.

“Wasn’t this in some movie with Julia Roberts?”

She poses the question to nobody in particular despite the fact that Enjolras is the only one there with her at present, so he takes it upon himself to answer her.

“Yes, it was,” he confirms. “ _Pretty Woman_ , I think. I’m just going by this song’s lyrics, though.”

Éponine gives him a look. “No need to be a smartass, pretty boy.” She resists the urge to drum on the steering wheel in time to the beat, pursing her lips and making a face. “Yeah, that movie. Never liked it.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

His words aren’t patronising; he’s curious as to why Éponine dislikes what’s probably one of the most beloved romantic comedies of all time. He shares her sentiment, but all the same, he wonders why exactly she dislikes it.

“It just kind of rubbed me the wrong way, you know?” Éponine gestures vaguely to the endless roads ahead of them. “The gender politics of it have _not_ aged well. I mean, I don’t really like romcoms in general, they’re not my thing, but I can tolerate some of them sometimes. I’ve never been able to do that with _Pretty Woman_.”

“Why is that?” Enjolras asks, brow furrowed as he looks at her, head slightly tilted to the side.

“Not really sure,” Éponine responds, shrugging. “Maybe it has to do with the big-ass age gap. It majorly creeped me out when I first watched it. Still does, honestly. It’s plain ol’ wish fulfilment; the story is super unrealistic, and that’s saying something, considering how most romcoms are. Nothing wrong with a little wish fulfilment now and then, but that shit was fucking _excessive_ , good _God_. And I always found it to be kind of misogynistic, with the _gorgeous_ white hooker with a heart of gold rescued from the awful, terrible, _dismal_ world of prostitution by some rich-ass white guy millionaire, nay, billionaire. Apparently the key to a happy ending is money, more money, and being white and heterosexual.” The sarcasm drips from her tone in spades as she says this, and out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras glimpses Éponine rolling her eyes and wrinkling her nose in distaste. “I always thought the movie degraded women. Glorified materialism. All that shit. You know?” She clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes hard before remarking, “But hey, that’s just me. Plenty of people out there enjoy it. God knows why, though.”

“I don’t,” Enjolras refutes. “I’m not too big a fan of romantic comedies either.”

Éponine turns her head and smiles at him, and it unnerves Enjolras somewhat how warm and genuine her smile is, so unlike her usual teasing grins or suggestive smirks. “Looks like that’s one thing we have in common.” After a while, she comments with a slight grin, “But let’s be real, my dislike of _Pretty Woman_ aside, I’d totally rock that red dress Julia Roberts wears to the opera.”

Enjolras smiles, silently thinking to himself that she really would, and he watches contemplatively as Éponine turns her head back to look straight at the road ahead, silence falling upon them like a thick blanket, muffling all sound. It’s quick to grow unbearable, and Enjolras tries not to fidget in his seat at the silence as he pulls out his phone from his pocket.

“Should I turn on some music?” he suggests.

Éponine shrugs. “Sure. What do you have in mind?”

“You seem like the kind of person who likes _Moulin Rouge!_ to me.”

Éponine’s eyes light up. “Oh, I do, actually! That’s one romcom I actually like.” She goes silent for a couple of moments before remarking, “Although I personally think it’s too dramatic to be considered a romcom.”

“Whatever you say, ’Ponine.” Enjolras shakes his head and smiles to himself as he plugs his phone in, turning on Ewan McGregor singing “Your Song” at Éponine’s behest, and music soon fills their ears, blaring through the small space from the stereo as they drive past sprawling fields and little towns, sunshine beating down upon them, streaming in through the half-open windows and turning everything gold. Enjolras can’t help but admire the way Éponine’s dark hair shines in the sunlight, light bouncing off her sunglasses, which are pushed up against her forehead and pulling her hair back as she sings, losing herself to the music.

_“So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do… You see, I’ve forgotten if they’re green or they’re blue! Anyway, the thing is, what I really mean: yours are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen!…”_

* * *

“McDonald’s, one o’clock!”

Courfeyrac shouts gleefully upon catching that first glimpse of those glorious golden arches, leaning forward from his seat in the middle of the minivan to start tapping incessantly on Combeferre’s shoulder. They’d all stopped at a rest area earlier to stretch their legs and stock up on junk food and Gatorade, having left a mere fifteen minutes ago, and Combeferre, who’s taken the wheel, gives Courfeyrac an incredulous look through the rearview mirror, brow furrowed and lips parted slightly to reveal clenched teeth.

“Courf, we literally _just_ left the rest stop half an hour ago,” Combeferre points out in mild exasperation. “We’ve got plenty of food right here.”

“And none of them happen to be McDonald’s,” Courfeyrac notes out loud, but not until after furiously digging through their various shopping bags filled to the brim with junk food to confirm if his suspicions are true. “Come on, ’Ferre! It’s motherfuckin’ McDonald’s!”

He leans over to tap Marius on the shoulder, the auburn-haired man jolting awake at the disturbance, and before he can protest, Courfeyrac is quick to point out the McDonald’s rapidly approaching in the distance.

“Wouldn’t some McDonald’s be absolutely _splendid_ right now, Mar?” Courfeyrac remarks airily with a sly grin on his face. “I personally have a _terrible_ hankering for an Oreo McFlurry.”

“Nobody talks like that,” Combeferre deadpans, rolling his eyes.

Marius doesn’t seem to hear Combeferre, his eyes having landed on the McDonald’s ahead and proceeding to light up the moment he lays eyes on the golden arches rising above the rest. “Yeah, let’s get McDonald’s!”

“What’s this about McDonald’s?” Cosette’s head pops up from the backseat; up until then, she’d been taking a nap in the backseat, curled up into a little ball. She combs her fingers through her hair as Marius turns around and gives her that excited sunshiney smile of his.

“McDonald’s, pookie!” Marius points out enthusiastically, gesturing wildly at the golden arches fast approaching.

Cosette’s brow furrows. “But we’ve got plenty of snacks right here already.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Combeferre mutters, mostly to himself. Courfeyrac smacks him on the shoulder for it.

“But _McDonald’s_!” he whines, going all jittery the way toddlers do when throwing a tantrum. Combeferre sighs; it takes everything in him not to roll his eyes at how childish Courfeyrac is being over something as mundane as _McDonald’s_.

“McDonald’s! McDonald’s! McDonald’s!” Courfeyrac starts chanting, furiously gesticulating for Marius to join in, and being the human equivalent of a spirited puppy he is, Marius starts chanting “McDonald’s!” with Courfeyrac over and over again, in their attempt to wear down Combeferre and Cosette. Though Combeferre is initially resistant, he sees the van much of the others are in take a turn and pull into the drive-thru of the McDonald’s, soon followed by Éponine’s truck, so he has no choice but to follow them. He thinks he can actually hear _cheering_ coming from the van, ever so faint.

Courfeyrac cheers as they pull into the drive-thru, immediately scrambling forward the moment it’s their turn to order food to shout out his orders as opposed to just having Combeferre order them for him for fear of him fucking up his order.

 _“Hi, what can I get you today?”_ a voice speaks.

Before Combeferre can even open his mouth, Courfeyrac calls, “Hey, can I please get a twelve-pack of McNuggets, large fries, one large Coke, and an Oreo McFlurry?”

The voice at the other end goes silent for a few moments before asking, _“Is that all?”_

“I’d also like an Oreo McFlurry!” Marius calls out happily.

“Blueberry muffin, please,” Cosette adds, leaning forward from the back in her attempt to make her voice heard.

It’s silent for another few moments before the voice says, _“So two Oreo McFlurries, a twelve-pack of McNuggets, large fries, large Coke, and a blueberry muffin, correct?”_

“Yep,” Courfeyrac affirms.

 _“Anything else?”_ the voice asks.

“No, that’s all, thank you,” Combeferre says.

Courfeyrac gives Combeferre a strange look as he drives on, waiting patiently in line for their food. He promises himself to get on Combeferre’s case about it later.

It’s not until twenty minutes later that they finally get their food—understandable, considering how many of them are in the van, but it’s still grating, at least for Courfeyrac (he’s _hungry_ , damn it)—and he nearly screams in delight when he finally receives that brown paper bag containing his food as well as his McFlurry cup and Coke, exploding in a fit of insane-sounding hysterical giggles as he opens his paper bag to grab a handful of fries, stopping only when he stuffs said fries in his mouth. He ignores how Combeferre gives him an odd look through the rearview mirror as he drives back onto the highway, following the others.

“Why didn’t you order anything?” Courfeyrac questions Combeferre inquisitively through a mouthful of Oreo McFlurry as they turn onto the interstate after their little detour to McDonald’s, his head resting on the shoulder of the driver’s seat.

Combeferre makes an little noise of indifference as he shrugs offhandedly. “We’ve got plenty of snacks already. Besides, I’m not that hungry right now.”

Somehow Courfeyrac can’t bring himself to believe that, what with what he thinks might be slight hesitation underlying Combeferre’s tone of voice, so he sticks his hand in his brown paper McDonald’s bag to dig around for a McNugget and hold it up to Combeferre’s face.

“Here,” Courfeyrac says, waving the McNugget around in Combeferre’s face with a teasing little smile on his face. Combeferre purses his lips, surprised and rather amused at the way Courfeyrac earnestly offers the McNugget to him, eventually relenting and taking a bite out of it as Courfeyrac dutifully holds it up to his face, laughing at how Combeferre just fucking rolls with it and eats the McNugget.

“Not bad,” Combeferre remarks, voice slightly thick as he chews on the McNugget and Courfeyrac finally leans back in his seat. “I still prefer Burger King as far as fast food chains go, though.”

A look of absolute shock and outrage falls upon Courfeyrac’s face, absolutely aghast as he declares sourly, “For the record, we’re not friends anymore.”

“Oh, no, I’m so upset, whatever would I do without you?” Combeferre retorts sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Courfeyrac sneers at Combeferre and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms petulantly across his chest while watching Marius look back and forth between him and Combeferre out of the corner of his eye.

“Wow, you two are really like an old married couple,” Marius observes out loud, innocent as can be and oblivious to how Combeferre’s eyes widen in alarm and his cheeks redden, noticing only how Courfeyrac starts spluttering indignantly, an incomprehensible mixture of expletives and denials streaming from his lips while Cosette bursts into a fit of giggles in the back seat.

Courfeyrac nearly chokes while trying to regain his composure, breathing hard and mildly disgusted that Marius would even think of suggesting such a thing, especially with how Courfeyrac’s _just_ declared Combeferre his mortal enemy for preferring Burger King to McDonald’s.

Marius, however, remains clueless, pursing his lips as he looks back and forth between Courfeyrac and Combeferre once again, thoroughly perplexed. “Was it something I said?”

Courfeyrac forces a laugh. “Oh, Marius, you beautiful idiot.” He inhales deeply before exhaling, saying, “Jesus Christ, please never say anything like that again, I think I had a fucking stroke. Also, ’Ferre looks like he’s gonna have a heart attack.”

Combeferre’s knuckles go white as his grip on the steering wheel tightens. Maybe he really is on the verge of a heart attack, but not for the reasons Courfeyrac thinks.

* * *

“Do you think we’d get arrested if we smoke weed out here? I’ve been saving a bag, but I haven’t figured out when to use it.”

Éponine and Musichetta stand to the side as they watch the others attempting to set up their tents, the results ranging from successful to utterly disastrous. It’s amusing, watching Joly and Bossuet just completely failing at setting up their tent, one of the two biggest due to them sharing it with Musichetta, while Combeferre manages to set his tent up in a mere three minutes, with some of Enjolras’ assistance. Éponine’s decided to simply fit an air mattress into the bed of her truck and cover it with blankets and pillows, giving her the advantage of finishing setting up camp much sooner than the others, so now she stands at the edge of their rented campgrounds in between a creek and the forest, gleefully watching the others attempt to set up camp.

Musichetta purses her lips as she crosses her arms across her chest. “I think you should save it for when we’re not in a national park. There are park rangers everywhere, we could get caught. Besides, I looked it up—pot’s illegal here in Kentucky.”

Éponine scoffs. “That’s bullshit.”

“Are you two talking about marijuana again?” They turn to see Cosette approaching, having just finished setting up her and Marius’ tent after Marius’ attempt to do so proved to be futile.

Éponine flashes Cosette a cheeky grin. “Do we ever talk about anything else?”

“Yes, you do,” Cosette says candidly. “I can’t keep you from smoking it, but God, _please_ be careful, don’t let it become a habit.”

“You’re such a mom,” Musichetta notes affectionately, beckoning Cosette over and putting an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, we won’t. We don’t really smoke it that often, anyway.”

“But during the rare occasions we do, Chetta usually gets really, really, _really_ high,” Éponine helpfully supplies, resisting a cackle at how Musichetta gives her the stink eye.

Cosette musters a little tight-lipped smile. “Well, if you two ever need someone to take care of you while you’re under the influence, I’m right here.”

Éponine gives Cosette a loopy grin, drawling, “Thanks, Mom, we’ll keep that in mind.”

Cosette rolls her eyes and smiles before she walks away to help Marius out with inflating their air mattress in their tent, leaving Éponine and Musichetta standing there, watching the rest of the Amis attempt to set up their tents to the best of their abilities.

It’s about sixteen minutes past seven in the evening, the skies streaked with gorgeous reds and oranges in all different shades, high above the trees. They’ve managed to land one of the best camping spots in the park, impressive considering how they got there a mere twenty minutes earlier—it’s a large open field, giving them a perfect view of the heavens above, and the legendary caverns aren’t too far from where they’re camping out for the night, meaning they won’t have to drive far the following morning to get there. Almost the moment they reached the park, Combeferre booked them a tour scheduled for early next morning, nine o’clock or so.

There are five tents total—one for Marius and Cosette, one for Bahorel and Feuilly, another for Jehan and Grantaire, and the two biggest tents are for Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta and Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras, respectively. From recent weather reports, there’s little to no chance of rain tonight, so Éponine figures she’ll be able to spend the night sleeping atop numerous blankets and pillows that she somehow managed to bring along on an air mattress fitted into the bed of her truck without any hijinks of nature disturbing her.

“You think we’ll see stars tonight?” Éponine asks Musichetta.

“I sure hope so,” Musichetta responds. “My mom and I went to Yellowstone together to go camping when I was fifteen; we could see the Milky Way. I hope it’s the same way over here.” She hums softly to herself, contemplating her next words before adding, “And if not, well, we can always go to Yellowstone for that when we head out west.”

Éponine sighs, biting her lip. “I’ve never really seen a sky full of stars before,” she confides quietly. She’s only ever lived in places where there’s too much light for her to see a proper sky full of stars at night so far in her life; she wonders what it’ll be like, stargazing for the first time.

“Well, let’s hope we’ll see stars tonight.” Musichetta pats Éponine on the back before she traipses off to join Joly and Bossuet, having watched their numerous fruitless attempts to set their tent up and figuring that she’ll just take matters into her own hands and set up the tent herself.

Éponine walks back over to her truck, parked in the grass near the tents, and hops up to sit cross-legged on the blankets covering the air mattress in the truck bed, watching the others from a bit of a distance. To her surprise, Courfeyrac stomps his way over to her and motions for her to move aside, jumping up onto the air mattress to sit with her, legs dangling over the edge.

“God, Combeferre is _so annoying_ ,” he huffs, crossing his arms childishly across his chest. “Apparently I’ve been setting up tents all wrong all my life.” The corners of his lips turn downwards in a sour-faced scowl as he mutters, “If that’s really true, how the fuck has he not noticed it before? We went to fucking boy scout camp together, for fuck’s sake.”

“He’s not that bad,” Éponine says in defence of Combeferre; she’s seen his odd old-married-couple dynamic with Courfeyrac, with their frequent banter and light arguments interspersed with the occasional petty fight sprinkled all throughout their friendship, which she’s come to regard as closer than most friendships. That’s saying something, considering how as a whole, all of Les Amis are pretty much inseparable. “I mean, you’ve been roommates with him for two years now and you still haven’t killed each other yet. That’s saying something.”

“He prefers _Burger King_ to _McDonald’s_!” Courfeyrac bemoans dramatically, raising his arms towards the heavens. “He’s a _heathen_!”

Éponine rolls her eyes and grabs a pillow to hit Courfeyrac in the back with it, evoking a cry of protest from him. “You’re such a baby,” she remarks when he turns to make a face at her.

“Oh, speak for yourself,” Courfeyrac bites back, wrinkling his nose in Éponine’s direction. “I heard you were whining about why you couldn’t sleep in your underwear back in Chicago while you were _sharing a goddamn bed_ with Enjolras. Sounds like you’re pretty desperate to get laid by him, if you ask me.”

The look on Éponine’s face contorts into one of outrage and affront as she hits Courfeyrac with the pillow again, much more harshly this time. “For the record, I really didn’t,” she mutters in reply. “And I almost always sleep in my underwear. It had nothing to do with the fact that I was sharing a bed with pretty boy over there.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Courfeyrac remains unconvinced, but if he has anything else to say on the matter, he doesn’t say it aloud, simply sitting there and swinging his legs over the edge of Éponine’s air mattress as he watches the others set up camp.

“Fuck you!” Éponine notes the obvious sarcasm lacing Courfeyrac’s tone and strikes him with the pillow in her hands once again, fuming. “As if I’d _ever_ want to fuck the marble man. Gross.”

“Careful what you wish for, Ep,” Courfeyrac tells her, planting his palms behind him on the air mattress. “Looks like you’re tempting fate over there.”

Éponine scoffs. “Oh, please. No such thing as fate.”

Courfeyrac shrugs and slides off the air mattress back into the grass. “Suit yourself.”

Éponine watches as he walks off to join Combeferre and Enjolras back at their tent, having just finished setting it up, and she turns around to crawl over to the window in the back of the truck, reaching through it to grab her phone and headphones out of her backpack. Propping up a few pillows behind her, Éponine places the headphones firmly over her head, encasing her ears, and leans back against the pillows propped against the back of the truck as she watches the others, Beyoncé crooning in her ear.

It’s an oddly tranquil moment—Éponine watches the others attempting to set up their tents, the only thing she can hear being Beyoncé belting out the chorus of “Love on Top”. She doesn’t notice that Enjolras has approached her truck until five songs later, which is when he finally reaches out to tap her on the shoulder, making her jump.

She tugs her headphones off, letting them rest on the crooks of her neck as she turns her head only to find that it’s Enjolras. “Jesus Christ, next time _say_ something before you do that,” she grumbles.

“I did,” Enjolras replies dryly. “You weren’t listening.” He gestures to the empty spot beside Éponine. “May I?”

Éponine scoots over and gestures for Enjolras to take his shoes off before climbing up beside her, legs outstretched in front of him as he leans back against the pillows. “Wow, this is… really comfortable,” he comments quietly, his hand ghosting over one of the fuzzier blankets on the air mattress.

Éponine shrugs. “Beats having to share a tent with one or more of you losers. No offence.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, visibly struggling to hide a smile, though Éponine remains heedless of that fact. “None taken.”

They sit there together in silence as several moments pass, watching how Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta _finally_ get their tent set up right after Jehan and Grantaire succeed in doing so while Combeferre goes about setting up a campfire, what with sunset fast approaching. At some point, Éponine speaks again, piping up, “So Courf and ’Ferre are arguing again.”

“It’ll blow over,” Enjolras says, almost dismissive. “I’ve lived with them for two years and known them for seventeen; they can never remain in a fight for more than twelve hours.”

“I don’t know, Courfeyrac sounded pretty set on having Combeferre as his mortal enemy after he said he prefers Burger King to McDonald’s when he came over to vent about it,” Éponine remarks, laughing softly to herself.

“He won’t,” Enjolras says assuredly. “They’ll be talking again by the time we fall asleep, I’m sure.”

Éponine smiles and slides down further, somewhere between lying down and sitting up, head against the pillows. “Where d’you want to go after Niagara Falls?” she asks, looking up at him. “You know, if you were in charge.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Boston, maybe? I’m not sure.”

Éponine wraps a blanket around her legs, which are mostly exposed due to how she’s clad in ripped jean shorts that barely cover her thighs. “God, I can’t wait to go to New York,” she mumbles, mostly to herself. “NYC Pride always looks so fucking lit, I want to be a part of that. Can’t let my flag go to waste.”

She looks up at Enjolras with a curious look in her eyes. “Do you have a flag?”

He shakes his head. “No, I never really got around to buying myself a pride flag.” At the aghast look on Éponine’s face, he says, “I never really considered having a physical pride flag representing my sexual orientation to be necessary, that money could go towards something far more practical.”

“What are you talking about? A pride flag _is_ practical,” Éponine contradicts. “I’ve used mine as a blanket on multiple occasions before. Also makes for a badass cape.”

Enjolras musters a slight smile. “Maybe I’ll buy one for myself when we go to pride.”

“Yeah, you should,” Éponine comments, flashing him a dimpled grin.

They sit there for a while, just watching as Courfeyrac drags a ridiculously huge Totoro sleeping bag into his, Combeferre’s, and Enjolras’ tent—how the _hell_ he managed to bring that along, Éponine can’t imagine, and she looks up to see how Enjolras is reacting to this. The golden-haired man’s face is rather pinched as he looks on in mild horror, evidently wondering how he’s going to fit his own sleeping bag in there, with how Courfeyrac’s Totoro sleeping bag is most likely taking up all the goddamn space. It’s not long after when Courfeyrac finally exits the tent to run over to Éponine’s truck in excitement.

“I thought all three of us could share my Totoro sleeping bag!” he tells Enjolras enthusiastically. “Just like when we were kids!”

Enjolras grimaces. “I thought you weren’t talking to Combeferre because of your… differences in fast food preferences.”

“I’ll be willing to let bygones be bygones,” Courfeyrac replies flippantly. Éponine’s convinced that if his hair was longer, he’d be flipping it over his shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun! Just like old times!”

Éponine’s doing all she can to keep herself from bursting out laughing as Enjolras’ face contorts into a look of complete dismay at the idea of having to share a sleeping bag with Combeferre and Courfeyrac—not that he’s against it, they did it all the time growing up, it’s just that they’ve grown quite a bit, to say the least, since the days of their frequent childhood sleepovers. While Courfeyrac’s a little more… _compact_ than most men, Combeferre certainly isn’t, so sharing a sleeping bag with them at this ripe old age of twenty-one would be a little too close for comfort, literally. What really gets him is the determined glint in Courfeyrac’s dark eyes—whenever he gets that look in his eyes, Enjolras knows he’ll refuse to take no for an answer, so reluctantly, he sighs and relents.

“Fine,” he agrees, albeit somewhat begrudgingly. “Don’t complain when it gets too cramped, though.”

“It won’t,” Courfeyrac denies confidently before running off to tell Combeferre of it. Éponine looks up at Enjolras with a gleeful grin on her face.

“You three used to share that sleeping bag when you were kids?” she coos, resisting the urge to start giggling hysterically. “Oh, my _God_ , that’s so fucking _cute_.”

Enjolras’ cheeks flame red under the dim glow of the setting sun. “Shut up.”

“No, tell me more,” Éponine says insistently, sliding upwards slightly in her lazy attempt to sit up a little straighter. “That same exact sleeping bag? And you shared it when you were little?”

Enjolras presses his lips tightly together, teeth clenched as he admits, “Yes.”

Éponine lets out what sounds like a little squeal of utter delight at this new information. “Oh, my fucking God, that’s so _cute_ ,” she says again, a wide grin on her face. “Oh, my God, I bet one of your parents have pictures of it lying around, don’t they? I want to see them.”

“I’d really rather you didn’t,” Enjolras says, but his words fall on deaf ears, for Éponine’s already crawling over to the edge of the air mattress to hop off once she swiftly puts her Chucks back on and approach Combeferre.

All Enjolras can do is watch her as she taps Combeferre on the shoulder with an enormous grin on her face visible even from where he’s currently sitting, and he sighs.

* * *

“God, this lack of cell service is fucking ridiculous,” Musichetta comments sourly as she stands up to wave her phone about in the air, as if that would magically earn her some cell reception.

“Honey, I think you should stop doing that,” Joly advises, trying to keep the anxiety out of his tone. “Your phone might… I don’t know, it might fall into the fire or something.”

“Yeah, Chetta, please sit down,” Bossuet adds. “Look, I made an extra s’more, do you want it?”

That catches Musichetta’s attention, leading to her immediately slipping her phone back into her pocket and plopping down between Joly and Bossuet before grabbing the s’more out of the latter’s hand, planting a kiss of gratitude on his cheek and proceeding to stuff the s’more in her mouth. “You’re the best,” she says thickly through a mouthful of graham cracker, chocolate, and burnt marshmallow.

Night has finally fallen upon them—it’s a little past nine thirty, stars sprinkled across the heavens and the crescent moon illuminating the purple skies. Sparks fly from the campfire, appearing and disappearing in split seconds while the flames dance about, flickering yellow light illuminating their faces. Feuilly’s broken out a party-size pack of marshmallows, a few Hershey chocolate bars, and graham crackers for s’mores, Bahorel having brought out metal sticks to skewer the marshmallows with along with cans of beer, and they’ve shifted rocks and logs about around the campfire to act as makeshift seats. They’re holding marshmallows over the fire, watching as they slowly roast and melt into gooey sugary goodness.

“You really shouldn’t eat burnt food,” Joly notes, biting his lip as he watches Musichetta eat a burnt-black marshmallow right off her stick. “It’s not good for your body.”

“Come on, babe, we can let ourselves be unhealthy every once in a while,” Musichetta replies airily, giving him a smile. Joly’s brow creases at the sight of some melted marshmallow mashed between his girlfriend’s teeth.

“Who’s up for some ghost stories?” Jehan calls out, out of the blue, just as he’s skewering a marshmallow on his stick.

Grantaire lets out a whoop of approval. “Hell yeah!”

“Please, no,” Joly pleads at the same time, biting his lip.

“Overruled!” Musichetta trills, looping an arm around Joly’s shoulders and kissing his cheek. “Sorry, darlin’.”

Inspired, Jehan launches into a story about this aunt and her niece and something about a place called Rest Haven, presided over by a white-haired woman who’s obviously the ghost, before he goes off into another story about some chick named Callie at a B&B who makes the mistake of playing the piano with some hot guy who is also _obviously_ the ghost and ends up fading away herself into nothingness. While the others eat their s’mores and take swigs of their beer, Jehan enthusiastically spews tales of otherworldly spirits and the paranormal, sparks floating upwards into the air from the dancing flames. Joly falls out of his seat at one point when Jehan’s tales venture into urban myth territory, though that surprises exactly nobody.

It’s twenty minutes later and Jehan is still rambling on and on about black-eyed children, clearly pleased by the spooked reaction his stories garner from the others (mostly just Joly, Marius, and Courfeyrac, though that’s enough for Jehan), though he’s soon cut off by a slightly tipsy Éponine interrupting, “Okay, that’s enough creepy stories for now, Joly looks like he’s going to shit his pants.”

“Oh, God, thank you,” Joly finally lets himself properly breathe for the first time in twenty minutes, making Musichetta laugh as she throws an arm around his shoulders and leans up to kiss his temple.

“Here’s to us!” Éponine continues, raising her fifth can of beer as high as she possibly can and whooping.

Grantaire’s arm snakes around her shoulders and pulls her into a close side hug as he hollers, “We’re gonna stick together no matter what and grow old together and watch each other get married and have kids and eventually we’ll be pushing each other around in wheelchairs at the nursing home before we buy a cemetery plot for all of us and get buried there together!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, slow the fuck down,” Éponine berates, elbowing him sharply in the stomach.

“It’s _wonderful_ that you put that image in all our heads,” Bahorel remarks sardonically, though he raises his beer can nonetheless.

“Who hurt you as a child?” Courfeyrac enquires, pulling a face of utter abhorrence at Grantaire’s thoroughly disturbing proclamation.

“We were all thinking it,” Grantaire defends, words ever so slightly slurred together. He looks at the bright green can in his hand. Is this his sixth beer? Seventh?

“What he’s _saying_ —” Jehan joins in with raising his beer can in a toast “—is that we’re going to be friends no matter what. Right?”

“Yeah, let’s go with that,” Grantaire mumbles, a loopy little grin on his face at how Jehan puts his arm around his shoulders.

“Well, then, here’s a toast to us!” Cosette calls out happily, raising her beer. “Let’s all stay best friends no matter what, and may the rest of our lives be the best of our lives!”

“Hell yeah!” Musichetta shouts her approval.

They all raise their beer cans in a toast to themselves seconds before Éponine smashes hers against her forehead, tossing it neatly in the little trash bag they’ve set aside for their litter and whooping when she gets it in a single try.

“I’m not sure about any of you, but I’m exhausted,” Feuilly announces as he gets to his feet, stretching his arms out and yawning once he throws his empty beer can into the trash bag. “I’m going to go check in for the night.” He pauses, pursing his lips contemplatively. “That wasn’t right, was it?” Before any of the others can respond, he says, “Whatever. I’m going to sleep. Good night!”

“Good night,” Enjolras calls after him, his voice trailing off as he watches Feuilly disappear into the tent reserved for Bahorel and himself.

“I think I’m going to go to bed too,” Cosette says, getting up and finishing the last of her beer before she walks over to dispose of it in the trash bag. Looking over at Marius, she asks, “You coming, honey bunches?”

“Right behind you, buttercup!” Marius is on his feet in what seems like the blink of an eye, stumbling slightly as he nearly trips on his way to the trash bag to get rid of his half-empty beer can, dutifully following Cosette back into their tent as the others watch them, Éponine with a look of stifled amusement on her face.

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are the next ones to call it quits and hit the hay for the night, the three of them going back into their tent, soon followed by Bahorel, and then Combeferre leaves to go back into his, Courfeyrac’s, and Enjolras’ tent and change into his sleepwear. Jehan bids the remaining Amis around the campfire good night and goes back into his tent, and Éponine’s noticed how Grantaire’s been looking a little fidgety, constantly stealing glances at his phone resting on his thigh. She watches him curiously as he finally bids her, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac a hasty good night before darting into his and Jehan’s tent, and then it’s just the three of them before Courfeyrac peaces out, leaving Éponine and Enjolras alone together by the campfire.

She scoots closer to him and nudges him, a goofy grin all over her face. “Heeeeyyyyyy, Enjolras,” she trills. “How’s it going?”

“You’re drunk,” Enjolras replies in lieu of a real answer, looking at her through narrowed eyes.

“No, I’m not,” Éponine stoutly denies, shaking her head vigorously. “Just a li’l bit tipsy. Just this much.” She holds up her hand and pinches her thumb and her index finger together to showcase the small space she’s left between, only about a quarter of an inch apart, and as much as Enjolras wants to roll his eyes and shake his head at her tipsy antics, he can’t help but give a half-smile. It’s rather endearing, in a strange way.

“I think I’ll go to sleep soon,” Enjolras says rather offhandedly, looking into the fire with a vaguely contemplative look on his face.

“You look prettier than usual tonight,” Éponine comments, still with that ditzy grin on her face that could have only come as a result of the alcohol she’s consumed. Enjolras’ breath hitches, but he says nothing on the matter as Éponine rambles on, “I… I like how the light—like—the fire—y’know, the light from the fire—I like how it looks when it shines on your face.”

“Thank you?” Enjolras sounds unsure even when he’s thanking her, wondering what a completely drunk Éponine would be like if this is just tipsy Éponine, as she claims.

“You know that—that Julia Roberts movie we were talking about earlier?” Éponine prompts, cocking her head as she looks up at him.

“Yes, _Pretty Woman_ ,” Enjolras replies. “What about it?”

“Like—I really don’t like it. You know that much.” Éponine trails off for a while, looking up at the stars for the brief stretch of quiet she grants themselves before saying, “I really, _really_ don’t like it. Leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Yuck.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste before saying, “But damn, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want someone to fuck me on a baby grand piano.”

Enjolras feels his cheeks flame red, and he’s grateful for the yellow glow of the campfire and the overall darkness encompassing them for hiding his blush from Éponine at her blunt confession. “And what does this have to do with me…?” He trails off, swallowing.

“Nothing. I just wanted to tell that to someone.” Éponine flashes him a sweet grin before reiterating, “But, like I said, I _really_ don’t like the movie as a whole. Its gender politics _really_ haven’t aged well. It’s totally backwards, especially in this day and age. I mean, I get it, it was made in 1990, but like. Damn.”

“I believe you’ve said something along those lines already before,” Enjolras reminds her dryly, stifling a smile.

Éponine shrugs, grinning cheekily up at him. “What can I say? I’m very opinionated. You _know_ this. At least, you should by now.”

She lets out an enormous yawn, bringing her hand up to her mouth to stifle it as best as she can before she gets up. “I think I’m gonna go crash for the night. G’night, pretty boy. Don’t let the bite bugs bed.” She pauses and scrunches up her whole face, eyebrows furrowing together. It’s got a strange sort of charm to it. Not that Enjolras would ever admit it to her face. “Switch a few words around. Whatever, you get what I’m trying to say, right?”

“I’ve known Courfeyrac for seventeen years, so yes,” Enjolras replies, a corner of his mouth tilting up in the slightest lopsided smile. “Good night, ’Ponine.”

“Nighty night, pretty boy,” Éponine chirps in response, getting to her feet.

She watches Enjolras get up and extinguish the campfire before walking back to his tent and disappearing into it, and she sighs and shoves her hands into her pockets, walking back to her truck.

* * *

Musichetta wasn’t kidding earlier about the complete lack of cell service in the park, Grantaire soon learns the hard way as he desperately tries to get even the smallest, shittiest connection on his phone, to no avail.

It’s close to midnight, and he’s cocooned in his sleeping bag and holding his phone in his hands while Jehan sleeps peacefully beside him in his own sleeping bag, emitting soft snores in his slumber. Grantaire’s dropped his phone on his face a couple of times now, but somehow, the noise still hasn’t proved sufficient enough to wake Jehan up. Whether that’s a good thing or bad, Grantaire isn’t quite sure.

He longs to update his Instagram after having seen his ex’s lengthy Instagram story earlier that day about some Panic! at the Disco concert she attended while he had a decent signal at the rest stop, though he can’t bring himself to admit just yet that his wishes to post some new pictures to his page are mostly out of a desire to spite his ex and prove to her that he’s having way more fucking fun than she ever will even when he’s not with her.

Super fucking petty, he _knows_.

Jehan turns over in his sleep, grunting slightly before his blue eyes slowly blink open to find Grantaire fully awake, his face illuminated by the dim glow of his phone screen. “Are you still up?” he asks groggily, sleep lacing his tone.

“Fuck, I hate having no cell service,” Grantaire grumbles under his breath.

Jehan scrunches up his face, eyebrows creasing. “What would you need cell service for?”

He leans over to try to catch a glimpse of what’s on Grantaire’s phone screen, seeing that he’s got Instagram open and is attempting to reload it over and over again. “Why’re you on Instagram?”

“Just… wanted to post some stuff. Commemorate this bit of the trip.” Grantaire’s quick to turn sheepish at how pathetic his excuse sounds when actually spoken out loud, flushing red in the darkness.

Jehan purses his lips, vaguely recalling how he saw Grantaire looking at his ex’s Instagram story earlier that day with something akin to silent indignation on his face while at the rest stop. “This is about getting back at Claudine, isn’t it?”

Grantaire stiffens, falling silent. It’s five minutes later when he says rather petulantly, “Maybe it is. Who knows. Not you.”

Jehan sighs and sits up, grabbing a blanket nearby and a little bag full of Lord knows what. “Okay, come on. Let’s take your mind off this.”

Grantaire hesitates for several moments before he begrudgingly goes along with whatever it is Jehan’s planning, following him out of their tent and under the starlight. Jehan wanders over to the middle of the clearing they’re situated in and spreads the blanket on the grass, plopping down on it and taking a mason jar and some long, thin strips of multicoloured paper out of the little bag he’d brought along. Frowning as he tries to figure out what on earth Jehan can possibly be up to, Grantaire sits down beside the ginger, noticing how Jehan’s blue eyes seem to sparkle in the moonlight.

“So… what is this supposed to be?” Grantaire steals a glance over his shoulder at the tents, watching Éponine rolling over in her sleep among the blankets on that air mattress she’s fitted into her truck bed, head resting against the fluffy pillows, before he looks back at Jehan.

“I make origami stars when I need a way to distract myself from something and also keep my hands occupied,” Jehan explains. “I’ve noticed how you fidget with your hands a lot, this might be a good outlet.” He holds up the mason jar, showing how it’s half full with glittering multicoloured origami stars already.

Grantaire raises his eyebrows, interest piqued. “How do you make them?”

Jehan smiles brightly, and it’s enough to rival the stars above. “Grab a strip of paper.”

He teaches Grantaire how to make the origami stars, having learned how to make them when he was eight and lacking in friends, which led to him seeking refuge in the elementary school art teacher’s studio, who taught him basic origami. It takes a few tries for Grantaire to get it right, but once he does, Jehan keeps on encouraging him and before they know it, they’ve filled the mason jar to the brim with little paper stars with no strips of paper left over.

Jehan tucks the jar away in the little bag once more and falls backwards to lie on his back, staring up at the stars and gesturing for Grantaire to join him. It’s a beautiful night—glittering stars are scattered across the skies, which have gone from violet to indigo, as far as the eye can see with the crescent moon hanging among them, shining light upon the park. Grantaire mentally picks out various constellations to himself from what he can recall of his astronomy course back in high school before he’s brought out of his thoughts by the sound of Jehan’s breathy, dream-like voice.

“Pretty neat things, them stars, aren’t they?” he comments softly.

Grantaire stares up at the heavens for a little while more before glancing over at Jehan, lips quirking into a faint smile at the awestruck look on his face. “Yeah, they really are.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little note: this fic isn't quite like my other multichap fics, as in, it's not prewritten, so if you want any more ship interaction/general character interaction between any particular ships/characters, do let me know and i'll try to work it in somewhere!!


	6. take it in but don't look down

* * *

As Enjolras lies there awake with Courfeyrac’s leg thrown over his face, he wonders how the hell he and Combeferre let the man talk them into sharing the Totoro sleeping bag of their childhood.

Courfeyrac’s just like Éponine—a complete bed-hogger, only worse, because in addition to taking up all available space, he sleeps in the strangest positions imaginable, his head lolling over Combeferre’s midriff while his legs are splayed on Enjolras’ face and chest. How he manages to do that in a fucking _sleeping bag_ , Enjolras can only try to imagine.

Enjolras sighs, resigning himself to this fate—he’s just going to have to wait until Courfeyrac wakes up so he can attempt to pry him off, and if he knows Courfeyrac at all, then that might very well take anywhere between fifteen minutes and three hours.

Combeferre wakes up not long after Enjolras did, eyes blinking open before he quickly feels the weight of Courfeyrac on his stomach, and he reaches over his head to grab his glasses and put them on before looking around, groggy and disoriented, to see Enjolras lying there with a look of absolute resignation on his face. “Good morning,” he mumbles, letting out a yawn.

“In what universe?” Enjolras replies a little huffily, looking over at Combeferre and sighing. “God, letting him talk us into this was a mistake.”

“Tell me about it.” Combeferre attempts to move, even a little bit, but finds that the weight of Courfeyrac lying asleep on him is just a bit too much, so he just sighs and lies there, a slight grimace on his face.

They lie there in silence for a while, Enjolras noting how some light’s begun to emerge outside their tent as birds sing their morning song, leading him to infer that the sun’s at least begun to rise, and after a while, he remembers how Éponine was teasing him after she found out how he, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac shared this same exact sleeping bag as kids last night, recalling how she approached Combeferre, presumably to ask for pictures.

“Hey, what did Éponine say to you last night?” Enjolras asks, biting his lip apprehensively as he looks over at Combeferre again.

Combeferre looks over at Enjolras, a slight smile of amusement on his lips. “You told her about how we used to share this sleeping bag during sleepovers when we were kids, didn’t you?”

“Not intentionally,” Enjolras replies, growing rather defensive. “And really, it’s Courfeyrac’s fault. He was the one who brought it up in the first place. Naturally, ’Ponine got curious.” The blood drains from his face as he looks at Combeferre through widening blue eyes, asking cautiously, “Oh, God, why, what did she say to you?”

“Not much, she just demanded pictures,” Combeferre responds, shrugging. “She was convinced that one of us had some from our parents.”

“Did you actually give them to her, though?” Enjolras asks, bracing himself for the worst.

“No,” Combeferre replies, and Enjolras can actually _feel_ the weight being lifted off his shoulders. That feeling of relief doesn’t last long, though, with how Combeferre follows it up by saying, “But she seemed pretty set on getting her hands on some pictures. Honestly, I’m sure she’ll get some from Courf sooner or later.”

“Talking about me?” Enjolras and Combeferre’s gazes immediately turn to Courfeyrac, whose eyes are still closed, though there’s a stupid goofy grin playing at his lips, obviously still half-asleep, his drowsy, happy lilt making him sound somewhat tipsy before he lets out a yawn. His eyes eventually blink open and he sits up, Enjolras nearly wheezing at the unexpected weight that’s been transferred to him, and he presses his lips tightly together while Courfeyrac rubs his eyes with his fists and lets out a satisfied sigh.

“See, that wasn’t so bad!” he proclaims, apparently oblivious to Enjolras directly beneath him. “Just like old times, right? I told you it wouldn’t be cramped.”

“Speak for yourself,” Enjolras mutters, inhaling and exhaling deeply in his attempt to remain calm.

Courfeyrac remains blissfully unaware, crawling over to unzip the opening in their tent, pulling his sandals on and exiting. Enjolras breathes for the first time in what feels like ages and he exchanges a dry, knowing look with Combeferre as they hear Courfeyrac’s enthusiastic exclamation coming from right outside their tent.

“Hey, look, the sun’s out!”

* * *

“Hey. Honey bunches. Marius. Baby? Wake up!”

Marius awakens with a petulant whine, pouting as he blinks open to see Cosette looming over him in the dark, a bright-eyed smile on her face. “What?” he moans childishly, rubbing at his eye with a fist. “It’s not even light out.”

“That’s the point,” Cosette tells him, bright and bubbly as ever. “Want to go watch the sunrise?”

Marius whines again, turning over in bed and curling into himself with a pout. “But I’m so _tired_ , pookie.”

“You’ll have to get up sooner or later,” Cosette points out. “We’re going to be touring the caverns at nine-thirty anyway. You’ll have to get up sooner or later, baby cakes.”

“Mmf.” Marius rolls over and buries his face in his pillow, groaning long and loud in protest before he reluctantly gets up, auburn hair an unkempt mess and green eyes bleary. Cosette grabs him by the hands and practically has to drag him out of the tent once he’s got his shoes on, groaning as Marius nearly topples over while she’s helping him to his feet. It looks as if she’s prepared a picnic blanket with a couple of pillows on for them to lie against while watching the sky change colour, and Marius manages to keep himself upright as Cosette propels the both of them towards it before he collapses the moment his feet are on the blanket.

Cosette giggles and plops down beside him, stretching out her legs as she lies down on the blanket, watching the sky for first light and reaching into the little satchel sitting next to her. “Want a Pop-Tart?” she offers, looking sideways at Marius and holding one out to him.

Marius’ eyes widen. “What flavour is it?”

“Chocolate fudge, are you really questioning your future wife right now?” Cosette teases as Marius eagerly grabs the Pop-Tart from her, wasting no time in tearing open the wrapper as he sits up to eat it, Cosette soon doing the same once she grabs a strawberry Pop-Tart out of the little satchel.

Marius beams and puts his arm around Cosette, pulling her close to smack a thankful kiss on her cheek before he takes a bite out of his Pop-Tart. Cosette smiles to herself, pleased, as the two of them eat their Pop-Tarts in comfortable silence before they fall back on the blanket to gaze up at the pinkening sky.

Marius brings his hand to his mouth to stifle an enormous yawn. “Mmf. I can’t wait to go to Cleveland and get a hotel and be back in a real bed.”

“Camping isn’t that bad,” Cosette points out softly, scooting closer so their sides would be pressed up against each other. “That campfire last night turned out to be really fun, didn’t it?”

Marius shudders. “ _No._ ”

Cosette snorts with laughter and turns her head to look at him. “What, was it Jehan’s ghost stories?”

“Yes!” Marius cries out, biting his lip and scrunching his face up as Cosette giggles and kisses his cheek. “Can he just… not do that? I thought some ghost lady was going to come out of the woods to kill us.”

“Honey, you’re being dramatic again.” Cosette gently nudged him, unable to keep the little smile off her face at how worked up Marius is getting over what happened last night. “They weren’t _that_ bad.”

“Easy for you to say,” Marius mumbles. “My cousin Theodule kept messing with me while we were growing up, he would dress up in a monster costume and hide in my closet to scare me at night or make ghost sounds and jump-scare me whenever we went down into Granddad’s basement.”

“He sounds like an absolute delight,” Cosette remarks wryly.

Marius seems to miss the mild sarcasm in Cosette’s tone, for he cries out in protest, “No, he wasn’t! He still isn’t.”

“I’m _joking_ , sweetie,” Cosette clarifies, resisting another snort.

The two of them fall silent after that, gazing upwards at the sky above and watching it slowly, slowly transform from a mass of sapphire blue streaked with soft oranges and pale yellows to muted shades of baby blue with pink and orange streaks interwoven throughout. Hazy white cotton-candy clouds float lazily through the air, the soft yellow glow of the morning sun reflecting off the white fluff drifting about among the pink and orange streaks of the baby blue skies.

“I can’t wait to go to Disney World,” Cosette mumbles after a while, snuggling up to Marius and resting her head on his chest as he snakes an arm around her torso. “It’s been a while since I’ve been there.”

“Really? When was the last time?” Marius asks softly, gently stroking her golden locks.

Cosette cracks a little smile at the memory as she says, “When Papa adopted me when I was eight, he took me to Disney World as a treat. One of the best days of my life.” She twists around slightly to look up at him. “Have you ever been?”

“Yeah, lots of times, Granddad took Theodule and me there almost every summer when we were kids,” Marius responds. “On one hand, I had to share a room with Theodule, but on the other hand, it was Disney World, so… I guess it all balanced itself out.”

“Theodule’s kind of a stupid name,” Cosette mumbles, jutting out her bottom lip slightly.

Marius lets out a low laugh. “I don’t know what my uncle was thinking. He went by Theo when we were kids, now he insists on being called Theodule.”

“Well, that’s a dumb choice,” Cosette comments, snorting.

Marius shrugs. “That’s Theodule for you.”

Cosette turns over so her chin would be resting on Marius’ chest as she gazes into his eyes with a soft smile on her face, big blue eyes shining. “I’ve never even met him and I already know he doesn’t hold a candle to you.”

Marius smiles that dorky smile of his and closes his eyes as Cosette drags herself up to press her lips to his in a chaste kiss, and it’s a heavenly feeling, her soft lips moving against his as she sighs into the kiss until it’s ruined by the sound of Éponine shouting at them.

“Ugh, get a room, you gross fucks!” she hollers out.

Marius and Cosette break apart and look up to see that Éponine’s awake already, sitting up on the air mattress in the bed of her truck and leaning against the back of her truck, comfortably cushioned by fluffy pillows and fuzzy blankets, with a bag of Cheetos puffs in hand and a sour look upon her face at having to bear witness to Marius and Cosette being the most nauseating they’ve ever been in a while. The blonde remains unfazed, simply rolling her eyes and calling out dryly in response, “Love you too, Eppy!”

They hear the faint sound of her scoffing before their attention is captured by the sound of Courfeyrac’s voice.

“Hey, look, the sun’s out!”

Marius’ gaze drifts to Courfeyrac, who’s standing amid the dewy grass directly in front of his tent dressed in plaid pyjama pants and a tank top, a bright smile on his face, and Marius cracks a fond smile. Courfeyrac’s never been much of a morning person, as Marius has learned from the time he spent rooming with him during their freshman year, so seeing him up and ready to go is a refreshing change from what he’s used to.

Courfeyrac catches sight of Marius and Cosette cuddled up on the picnic blanket and instantly marches towards them, plopping down on the little space left on the blanket and grabbing a Pop-Tart out of Cosette’s little satchel without so much as asking, tearing open the wrapper and biting down on it. “So how’s it been with you guys?”

Before Marius can answer, he’s distracted by the sound of Enjolras’ grouchy morning voice grumbling wearily, “Christ, the sun’s _barely_ out.”

Cosette stifles a giggle at how Combeferre replies groggily to Enjolras, “Look on the bright side, we’ll hopefully be back in real beds by tonight.”

* * *

“Rise and shine, motherfucker, I’m hungry, let’s go get ourselves some breakfast!”

Feuilly wakes up to find Bahorel already buttoning up a flowery blue Aloha shirt before putting on a pair of khaki shorts as he stays there, half-sitting and half-lying in his sleeping bag and blinking like an idiot while Bahorel gets dressed.

“Huh?” is all Feuilly can muster up the energy to say. Clearing his throat, he points out in a mumble, “It’s barely light out.”

“Yeah, well, it’s eight already, and we’re going to be leaving for the caverns at nine,” Bahorel reminds him as he pulls on his socks and shoes. “I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking starving.”

“Ugh.” Feuilly turns over and buries his face in his pillow, groaning something long-suffering before he drowsily gets up, sliding his feet into a pair of sandals he bought two years prior at a Target and trudging out of his and Bahorel’s tent to find that a fair few of the others were already up, bar Bossuet, Musichetta, and Grantaire. Jehan is busying himself with reheating the breakfast burritos they’ve brought along over the campfire while Courfeyrac snacks on Marius and Cosette’s Pop-Tarts, perched on a log by the campfire.

Feuilly goes over to stand by Combeferre, who’s looking at a map of the park he’s acquired sometime ago and clicking his tongue. “So what’s the plan?” Feuilly questions, looking over Combeferre’s shoulder at the map.

Combeferre startles slightly at the sound of Feuilly’s voice before quickly regaining his composure, replying, “Well, I’ve booked us a tour of the caverns for nine-thirty, and it’ll probably last around six hours, give or take. We should pack some lunch to take with us for when we take a lunch break.” Combeferre looks around at the others and comments, “It looks like Jehan’s making some quesadillas as we speak.”

“So that won’t be a problem,” Feuilly says. “Is that it?”

Combeferre nods, eyes still fixed on the map. “Yeah, I guess that’s it. We’ll pack up before we drive to the caverns, and once we’re done with the tour, we can start our drive to Cleveland right after.”

“Sounds like a plan!” Feuilly walks off, back into his tent to grab his camera and let it dangle from around his neck as he looks around at the others and walks around for good angles to take photographs from, and he soon finds himself swept up in taking pictures of the others, not noticing anything else around him as he takes pictures with the soft morning glow providing some fantastic lighting.

Enjolras walks his way over to Combeferre, still with a sour look on his face at being fucking sat on by an unknowing Courfeyrac earlier on. “What’s up, chief?” Combeferre asks upon sensing Enjolras standing beside him.

“Not much,” Enjolras mumbles in response. “I could use some food.”

“Jehan’s reheating some burritos right now, why don’t you go grab one?” Combeferre gestures in Jehan’s general direction and Enjolras sees that Éponine’s currently snatching a breakfast burrito from Jehan, whose mouth is open in protest as the small woman runs off to her truck, cackling.

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras goes over to the campfire and asks Jehan for a burrito. The ginger is more than happy to present him with one, and once he receives his burrito, Enjolras walks over to Éponine, who’s perched on the edge of the air mattress in her truck and swinging her legs as she takes enormous bites of her own burrito.

“Sup, pretty boy?” she greets through a mouthful of food.

“Courfeyrac is worse than you are when it comes to hogging sleep space,” Enjolras states in a deadpan manner, leaning against the truck and unwrapping his burrito.

“Well, that’s a nice way to tell a girl good morning,” Éponine remarks sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “And I do _not_ hog sleep space, don’t be fucking ridiculous.”

Enjolras looks up at him, incredulity in his blue eyes. “Are you serious? Back in Chicago, you quite literally pushed—” He cuts himself off upon seeing what she’s wearing. “Is—is that my shirt?”

Only the smallest sliver of Éponine’s black drawstring sleep shorts peek out from underneath the hem of the shirt she’s wearing, a The 1975 T-shirt much too big for her small, slender figure, that Enjolras is certain he packed for the trip and still had in his suitcase when they were leaving Chicago.

“No,” Éponine stoutly denies. One of the sleeves slides off her shoulder, exposing a single scarlet bra strap.

Enjolras gives her a look. “I’m pretty sure I packed that shirt for the trip.”

“Well, maybe we just have the same shirt,” Éponine says.

Enjolras’ brow creases. “’Ponine, why on earth would you buy a T-shirt four sizes too big?”

“Why the fuck not?” Éponine swiftly shoots back. Enjolras tries hard not to cringe when she accidentally spills some of the contents of her burrito on her shirt. Which he’s ninety-nine percent sure is actually his.

“That’s definitely my shirt,” he tells her, raising his eyebrows. When she falls silent, avoiding his gaze, he presses, “Well, is it?”

“No.” Éponine has to restrain herself from squirming at the look Enjolras gives her; it bears an uncanny resemblance to the stern, cold look her high school principal Javert had in his eyes each time she landed herself  in his office back during her days as a troublemaking teenager. “Maybe.” Enjolras’ eyebrows practically disappear into the curls falling into his eyes and into his hairline, and Éponine sighs, reluctantly giving in with a sullen pout. “Yes.”

Éponine takes a defiant bite out of her burrito and informs him thickly, “And you lost it the moment I swiped it from your suitcase, sorry, buddy. Never getting it back.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Enjolras sighs and reaches up with his free hand to rub his temple. “That’s one of my favourite shirts.”

Éponine grins. “Didn’t know you had such a soft spot for The 1975, pretty boy.”

Enjolras looks up at her, face scrunched up incredulously. “What kind of music did you think I listened to?”

Éponine shrugs, biting into her burrito. “I don’t know, Beethoven, Mozart, maybe some Tchaikovsky… that kind of shit. Y’know, classical stuff.”

Enjolras’ brow creases even more at her words, frowning to himself. “Good God, how ancient do you think I am? I’m only five months older than you. Yes, I have an appreciation for classical music, but that’s mostly because my parents put me through ten years of piano lessons.”

“No need to be snippy, ’Jolras, you asked, I answered,” Éponine says rather huffily. “Sue me for thinking you were really a marble statue sculpted during the Renaissance who somehow got brought to life in the wrong century.”

“ _What?_ ” He’s trying to process her jumble of words, completely at a loss, before he asks, “’Jolras?”

“Hey, you nicknamed me, so I’ll nickname you,” Éponine replies, shrugging and swinging her legs. “Unless you want me to call you Gabe. Or keep referring to you as marble man or pretty boy. I’m game either way.”

“Well, ’Jolras is fine. I guess. I suppose I wouldn’t mind Gabe that much. I prefer Gabriel, though.” Enjolras bites his lip as a look of contemplation crosses his face at Éponine’s new nickname for him, looking off into the distance as he brings his burrito up to his face to take a bite out of it.

Once Éponine’s finished her burrito, she hops off the truck and into the grass. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, _Gabe_ —” she giggles at the vaguely perplexed look on his face as she calls him that “—I’m going to go wake up dear Grantaire.”

He dryly pretends to salute her before she trudges off and disposes of her burrito wrapper in the trash bag they’ve set aside the campfire, and the last thing Enjolras sees before he’s momentarily blinded by the flash of Feuilly’s camera is Éponine disappearing into Jehan and Grantaire’s tent.

* * *

“Jesus _fuck_!”

Grantaire wheezes at the unexpected weight on his chest, eyes frantically blinking open to find Éponine straddling his stomach, arms crossed across her chest. He squints at her incredulously, gnashing his teeth together. “What the _fuck_ , Éponine?”

“I didn’t see how else I was supposed to wake you up,” Éponine says, shrugging.

Grantaire coughs, trying to wriggle his way out from underneath Éponine, to no avail. “Get the fuck off!”

“Nah, I’m kind of enjoying this,” Éponine says, an infuriating smirk finding its way onto her face, dimples in her cheeks. “Look who’s got the high ground now.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ep!” Grantaire would scream, but she’s successfully shut off his air supply by sitting on his stomach, and it’s all he can do not to violently gasp for air.

“Hey, do you think the others could see us through the tent?” she muses, mostly herself.

“Get— _off_ —” Grantaire finds that his arms are locked at his sides, Éponine perched firmly on his stomach.

“How fucking wild would it be if they thought we were having sex?” Éponine goes on, cackling maniacally.

Disgust overcomes Grantaire at the mere idea of having sex with his best friend of seven years—not that she’s not attractive, she most certainly is, he just isn’t attracted to her in that way—and with a huge grunt and an exasperated groan, he finally manages to push her off of him and Éponine tumbles on top of Jehan’s sleeping bag in fits of hysterical laughter, hardly able to breathe, she’s laughing so hard. Grantaire sits up and shakes his head, rubbing his temple before he shoves Éponine, only resulting in more laughter from her.

Rolling his eyes, he gets up and out of the tent, soon followed by Éponine, and they’re both immediately approached by Courfeyrac. “Hey, what the hell was going on in there? I heard yelling.”

“I was _sat_ on—” Grantaire pointedly glances at Éponine, who simply smiles sweetly at him in return “—by this little _gremlin_ over here.”

“Fuck you,” Éponine retorts, elbowing him in the side. “If I was going to be any mythic creature, I’d obviously be a succubus. _You’re_ the gremlin, darling R.”

Courfeyrac snorts at Éponine’s words. “What would _I_ be?”

Éponine’s lips stretch out into a shit-eating grin as she declares without hesitation, “Hobbit.”

Courfeyrac lets out a gasp of outrage and reaches out to smack Éponine in the arm. “Fuck off, I’m taller than you,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, by three inches.” Grantaire pats Courfeyrac on the back and goes on his way to the campfire to grab a breakfast burrito, and Éponine laughs.

“He’s right,” she quips, a hint of a smug smirk playing at her lips. “Three inches isn’t that much taller. Sorry to break it to you, babe.”

Éponine saunters off to join Musichetta and Bossuet in stealing Pop-Tarts out of an unsuspecting Marius’ tote bag while Joly watches with mild concern written all over his face—though really, when does he not have concern written all over his face?—and Courfeyrac is left standing there, in the midst of a hissy fit by the time Combeferre approaches him.

“You’ve got that look on your face again,” Combeferre comments. “What happened this time?”

Courfeyrac turns to look at him. “’Ferre, do you think I’m a hobbit?”

Combeferre falls silent before he asks, “Do you want comfort or truth?”

“Truth,” Courfeyrac replies immediately. “Don’t sugarcoat it, I wanna know.”

“Then yes,” Combeferre tells him with a shrug of his shoulders, unapologetic. Courfeyrac scowls and screws up his face at Combeferre, thoroughly displeased.

“I don’t deserve this!” he whines, throwing his arms up into the air. “Why are you all so mean to me about my height? It’s not my fault I’m ‘vertically challenged’ or whatever the fuck it is you giraffes call it.”

Combeferre snorts at the way Courfeyrac says the words ‘vertically challenged’, in a mocking scoff as he rolls his eyes and crosses his arms across his chest, that cute little nose of his turned up haughtily. “Oh, yes, genetics are just the _worst_ , aren’t they?”

Courfeyrac’s just beginning to nod his agreement before he stops, narrowing his eyes at Combeferre cantankerously. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Perhaps I am,” Combeferre replies, utterly failing at suppressing a smile.

“You suck,” Courfeyrac sniffs, jutting out his bottom lip.

“Love you too,” Combeferre responds sardonically.

“Stop stealing all my lines!” Courfeyrac snaps, lips twisted into a sulky pout.

Combeferre’s about to open his mouth to respond before he and Courfeyrac are interrupted by the sound of Enjolras calling out dryly, “Combeferre, Courfeyrac, if you would be so kind as to stop flirting and join us over here, I’d like to go over our plans for today.”

Courfeyrac starts spluttering incoherently in a most undignified manner at Enjolras’ insinuations that he and Combeferre are _flirting_ , a stream of jumbled expletives and inelegant sputters falling from his lips as his entire face flushes scarlet. How _dare_ he? He makes a mental note to try and rip out Enjolras’ annoyingly immaculate golden curls later on in retaliation, when he isn’t quite so gobsmacked and inarticulate.

Combeferre rolls his eyes at Enjolras’ wry remark and grabs an open-mouthed Courfeyrac by the wrist, dragging him beside the campfire, where everyone else is gathered. The golden-haired man seems to have procured Combeferre’s map of the park, inspecting it closely before he folds it up and looks up and around at the others.

“Our tour is scheduled to begin at nine-thirty, yeah?” Enjolras glances over at Combeferre, who nods affirmative. Courfeyrac is still standing frozen beside Combeferre in wide-eyed, open-mouthed outrage at Enjolras’ earlier implications. Promptly ignoring him, Enjolras continues, “So we have about an hour to pack up our things and drive there.”

“Actually, we’re going to be leaving at nine,” Combeferre gently corrects Enjolras. “So we have half an hour to pack up our things.”

“Well, no time to lose, right?” Enjolras hands the folded map back to Combeferre and places his hands on his hips, assuming a brisk stance by standing with his arms akimbo. “Jehan’s made us some lunch—thank you, Jehan—” Jehan waves from his spot behind the rest of them, packing up the rest of the quesadillas he’s made in Tupperware “—so all we need to do is get ourselves cleaned up and pack up our things. Got it?”

“Capiche,” Musichetta chirps, grabbing both Joly and Bossuet by the hand and dragging them off to their tent to take their stuff out and pack it all up. The rest of them soon follow suit, Éponine practically skipping her way back to her truck to deflate her air mattress and stow those blankets and pillows away in God knows where; Enjolras is still mystified as to how she managed to pack all those up and bring them along with her on the trip. He wonders if it’ll remain a mystery; only he, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac are left standing there by the campfire, Jehan having put out the fire.

That’s when Enjolras finally takes notice of how Courfeyrac is still standing there, still as a statue, slack-jawed fury written all over his face, and his eyebrows crease, nose wrinkling as he asks, “What happened this time?”

“You broke Courfeyrac,” Combeferre deadpans.

“Mmm? How so?” Enjolras’ eyebrows furrow even more, looking back and forth between Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“By insinuating that he and I were flirting.” Combeferre tears his gaze away from Courfeyrac to shoot Enjolras a dirty look. “Which we were _not_ , thank you very much.”

Enjolras shrugs glibly. “You could have fooled me.”

Combeferre sighs. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Enjolras lets out a snort. “I believe that statement best describes Courfeyrac, not me.”

Rolling his eyes, Combeferre turns back to Courfeyrac and lightly slaps him in an attempt to snap him out of it. “Wake up!”

Courfeyrac blinks, in a complete daze as he looks around before his gaze finally lands on Enjolras, and his cheeks flush red immediately. He attempts to lunge at Enjolras, screeching as Combeferre grabs him firmly by the waist and pulls him back, arms wrapped tight around a flailing Courfeyrac’s waist. Despite his constraints, Courfeyrac is kicking and screaming curses at Enjolras, who does his best to keep a straight face, lips twitching as he resists an amused smile.

“Lemme at him!” Courfeyrac hollers at Combeferre, straining to lurch towards Enjolras while Combeferre just barely manages to hold him back, nearly stumbling backwards from Courfeyrac’s weight. Not long after, Éponine walks up to stand beside Enjolras, now clad in a plain, loose-fitting black crop top underneath a burgundy leather jacket paired with black jeans and red Chucks. How and where the fuck she managed to change so quickly, Enjolras can’t figure out. He’s beginning to think she’s one with the spirit realm, in and out as she pleases.

“Have you packed your things?” he asks, turning to look at her while Courfeyrac is still angrily screeching and thrashing about in Combeferre’s grasp.

“Would I be standing here if I haven’t?” Éponine quips in response, watching Courfeyrac attempting to break free of Combeferre’s vice grip with great interest, evidently entertained. “Really? All this for a throwaway comment you made? Jesus Christ, he’s sensitive.”

“Tell me about it,” Enjolras mutters, leaving the scene to go back into his tent, but not until after he takes another glance over his shoulder at Courfeyrac and Combeferre. He seems to have really struck a nerve there, and _fuck_ , now he really, really wants to find out why.

Damn it.

* * *

“My legs are tired,” Musichetta announces not even two minutes into their trek to the cave entrance, where they’re to meet their tour guide, from the parking lot.

Without a word, Joly walks over to stand in front of Musichetta, bending down slightly to let her climb up onto his back and wrap her arms around his neck, legs secure around his waist, and Musichetta beams, leaning around him to kiss his cheek, cooing, “You know me so well.”

Joly smiles and tucks his arms underneath Musichetta’s legs as Bossuet walks beside them, a bag of Chex Mix in hand, and Musichetta reaches out to swipe a handful of Chex and stuff it into her mouth, munching happily on them as they all walk towards the cave entrance, Enjolras leading them all with the map of the park in hand. Grantaire soon joins Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, falling into step beside them and toying with the hem of his shirt.

“I don’t know how the hell you got two people to fall for you at the same time you fell for them,” he says to Bossuet, clicking his tongue and pulling a face. “I can’t even get _one_ person to do that.”

“The stars have aligned in our favour,” Musichetta proclaims in a ridiculous, godawful British accent, affectionately rumpling Joly’s hair. “Although we did spend a lot of time looking for beds that’ll fit three people when we first moved in together.”

Grantaire kicks at the gravel beneath his feet, scowling to himself. “Love is gross. And fake. It’s just some stupid chemical reaction that turns you into an idiot and it always fucks you over in the end.”

“You’re just saying that because Claudine dumped you,” Bossuet tells him comfortingly, putting an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders before he shrugged him off. Unfazed, Bossuet goes on, “And I’m not saying that you’re not allowed to be hurting over it, but you’ll eventually have to move on, because you won’t be able to find happiness if you keep hanging on to the wrong person.”

Grantaire looks up at Bossuet, brow furrowed. “Wow, that was… surprisingly profound.”

“I speak from experience,” Bossuet says solemnly.

Musichetta reaches over and swats at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I got dumped by my high school boyfriend a month before graduation,” Bossuet explains, shrugging. “Something about how it wasn’t working out, since I didn’t want to hide anymore but he wasn’t ready to come out… You know, that kind of stuff.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and lets out a low whistle as they approach the cave entrance, where their tour guide is waiting. “I was pretty torn up about it, we’d been together for a year and it was pretty serious for a high school relationship, but I forced myself to get over him and move on.” Bossuet looks up at Musichetta and smiles at her before his gaze drifts down to Joly. “Good thing I did, too, because otherwise I wouldn’t have you guys right now, and I wouldn’t trade that for the world.”

“Aww,” Musichetta coos, reaching out to ruffle Bossuet’s hair. “That’s cute, you like us so much.”

Joly simply looks down and smiles that goofy smile to himself, nearly tripping in the process. Bossuet laughs.

Grantaire mimes vomiting, pretending to stick a finger slightly into his open mouth as he gags. “You three are fucking disgusting, you know that?” he mutters, kicking at gravel once again. “Like, how lucky do you have to be, to like someone and have them like you back in the same way at the same time in the same place? Fucking impossible, I’m telling you.”

“Well, when you put it _that_ way, it sounds impossible,” Joly says with a slight snort. “But you just have to be patient, R. The right person will come along, I’m sure of it.”

Grantaire scoffs derisively. “Doubtful.”

Musichetta reaches over, with much difficulty, to tweak Grantaire’s nose in a vaguely condescending manner. “That attitude will get you nowhere, young man.”

“I’m _older_ than you.”

“Yeah, so?”

Grantaire stares through narrowed eyes at Musichetta’s raised eyebrows, sighing distastefully. “I stand by my belief that romance is dead.”

Musichetta rolls her eyes, about to open her mouth to say more before they come to a stop in front of the steps leading down into the caverns, the tour guide turning towards them with a million-watt smile on her face. Combeferre and Enjolras approach her, introducing themselves, before she nods and turns to the rest.

“Hello, everyone, I’m Gigi,” she introduces herself, bright-eyed and smiling, exuding an air of adventure. “I’m going to be your tour guide for the day. Let’s go down into the caverns, shall we?”

* * *

They’ve trekked through the cave for about an hour now, frequently stopping in places Gigi deems important enough to tell them the history of, and Éponine’s long since taken notice of how Jehan keeps looking over at Grantaire and wincing whenever he overhears him heatedly going on and on about how love is nothing but a chemical reaction designed to make fools out of people and how it’s for suckers and all that bullshit he sometimes spews. Éponine often finds herself agreeing with him, but the look on Jehan’s face tells her that today is not going to be one of those days, so she approaches him and starts walking by him when Gigi starts walking again, leading them to yet another part of the caverns.

“You all right there, buddy?” Jehan startles slightly at the sound of Éponine’s voice, turning his head sideways to find her walking beside him, slender arms swinging carelessly at her sides.

He cracks a little smile, putting on an air of cluelessness. “What makes you think I wouldn’t be?”

“Well, for one, there’s the way you keep looking at R whenever he’s talking about how love and hope is for suckers,” Éponine says, wasting no time in getting straight to the point.

Jehan’s cheeks flush pink. “Is it obvious?”

Éponine lets out a little snort. “You’re not exactly subtle about it.” She pauses, biting her lip, before she gently places a hand on Jehan’s arm, just barely brushing his skin and giving him the opportunity to pull his arm away should he want to as she presses, “My question is, why?”

He stiffens slightly, unable to come up with an answer to her question. Why _does_ he feel so bothered whenever Grantaire laments about how he’s never going to find love again, that he’s officially given up on such a thing?

Éponine goes quiet for a while as well before she asks, “Is it because you’re a sap? I don’t mean that in a bad way, by the way. It’s just… you’re all about that romance and hope stuff. Always the optimist.”

 _Sure, let’s go with that,_ Jehan thinks. “Yeah, that’s probably why.”

Truth be told, he doesn’t know why he always feels as if his heart is plummeting into his stomach each time Grantaire ridicules the idea of romance, stating time and time again that love is a preposterous notion developed by those who find solace in being hopeful. A simple, foolish concept invented by dreamers with their heads in the clouds. For as long as Jehan can remember, he’s always been one of those dreamers, never letting anything suppress his constant optimism; maybe that’s why he feels so irked each time Grantaire loudly proclaims that hope and romance are dead as can be.

Or maybe it’s something else. He recalls the way he thought he perceived butterflies fluttering in his stomach, ever so slight, almost imperceptible, during the drive to Chicago, the first of many, when Grantaire allowed him to lay his head on his shoulder and drift off. Jehan vividly remembers the slight weight of Grantaire’s head against his own, the two of them falling asleep together as Joly drove with Troye Sivan crooning in their ears. The memory of using Grantaire as a human body pillow back in Chicago is still fresh in Jehan’s mind, and the mere thought of it makes him slightly woozy, though from _what_ , he doesn’t know.

“Jehan?” He jumps at the sound of Éponine’s voice interrupting his thoughts, turning his head to look down at her again. He must look visibly shaken, blue eyes wide, for Éponine laughs at the sight before she asks, “You okay?”

The corners of his mouth turn up in a slight smile. “Never been better.”

Éponine presses her lips together, brow creasing as she seems to mull things over in her mind, before she ultimately settles for patting Jehan on the back and grinning up at him. “Well, keep on being the sunshiney person you are, I’ma go steal Courf’s hat,” she tells him with a vaguely conspiratory smile on her face before skipping off. Jehan watches as she, true to her word, knocks Courfeyrac’s ridiculous cowboy hat off his head and catches it, putting it on and sticking her tongue out at a protesting Courfeyrac before she scurries off to bother Enjolras, still with Courfeyrac’s cowboy hat perched upon her head.

Jehan laughs and shakes his head, going over to join Marius and Cosette while Gigi excitedly leads them to the Frozen Niagara part of the cave, the flash of Feuilly’s camera going off at scattered intervals here and there as they walk on and admire the sights.

Jehan taps on Cosette’s arm, causing the blonde to look up at him with a wide-eyed, expectant look upon her face. “What is it?”

“How do I convince R that love isn’t just some stupid concept and is really one of the best things you can have in your life?” Jehan asks. He tries not to cringe; spoken out loud, his words sound absolutely ridiculous, but he needs to find out.

Cosette quirks an eyebrow, surprised at the odd question. “Well… Just talk to him? Maybe? Listen to his reasoning, and then tell him your point of view? You could give him advice, he’s probably just still bitter about Claudine dumping him…” She trails off, biting her lip. “Just take my advice with a pinch of salt. Do what _you_ think would be effective.”

Jehan musters a smile, though inwardly, Cosette’s words, in her attempt to be helpful, only make him feel even more unsatisfied, leading him to wonder what it is exactly that’s bothering him so much about Grantaire’s bitterly cynical outbursts. Maybe there’s more to his discomfort than his staunch belief in being hopeful and always looking on the bright side, and Grantaire’s lack thereof.

He simply falls silent as he walks alongside Cosette, their little group gaily traversing through the caverns as Gigi recounts the history of significant parts of the cave, peppy as ever. The caverns are a sight to behold, with their glittering walls of rock, stalactites dangling from the ceiling in clumps and stalagmites rising from the ground. It looks like something right out of a Disney villain’s cool lair.

At least, that’s what Éponine likens the caverns to as she takes some time to look around at her surroundings in thinly veiled awe, walking beside Enjolras with a spring in her step after having successfully stolen Courfeyrac’s cowboy hat, if only for the time being. She struts with her head held high, exuding confidence even with how Courfeyrac’s cowboy hat clashes dreadfully with her overall outfit—leather jacket, crop top, black jeans, and red Chucks—and she adjusts the hat slightly, looking up at Enjolras and making a big show out of tipping it at him.

“I wanna be a cowboy, baby,” she drawls, chortling at how it elicits a roll of Enjolras’ blue eyes.

“Dear God, please don’t start.” He looks at her, eyebrows furrowed, and he makes a slight face at how the cowboy hat so obviously doesn’t go with the rest of her outfit, though admittedly, she pulls it off a million times better than Courfeyrac does. He tells her just as much.

“Between you and me?” Éponine looks up through comically wide eyes at the sound of Enjolras’ voice. “The hat looks better on you than it does on Courf.”

“I heard that, asshole!” they hear Courfeyrac yell from a few feet in front of them, turning around to give them both a death glare, scowling fiercely before Combeferre throws an arm around him, hanging loosely around Courfeyrac’s shoulders, and brings his attention back to what Gigi is talking about. Éponine laughs and playfully bumps Enjolras’ arm with her shoulder.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, and if Enjolras didn’t know any better, he might have thought that there’s the faintest hint of a rosy blush tingeing her cheeks as she rearranges the cowboy hat once more. Maybe it’s just the dim lighting of the caverns playing tricks on him. That’s probably it.

A burst of relaxed silence stretches between them as they stop to admire Crystal Lake, Feuilly taking pictures of them all while Gigi is explaining the history behind Crystal Lake, and it’s not until they’re nearing the bottomless pit that Enjolras speaks up again.

“You know I tried going vegan, freshman year?” he mentions to Éponine after overhearing Gigi making an offhand comment about vegetarianism.

Éponine makes a little noise of disgust, and Enjolras looks down to see that she’s made a face that can only be described as being full of utter revulsion, distaste creeping into her dark eyes. “That’s so fucking gross, why would you do that to yourself?”

Enjolras shrugs, pursing his lips in speculation. “I think I might have been temporarily brainwashed into doing so.”

Éponine scoffs contemptuously. “By _whom_?”

“Those PETA-supporting activists constantly crusading for animal rights around campus,” Enjolras says, his words rather blurred together from how quickly he speaks them, mostly due to his embarrassment.

Éponine only scrunches up her face further at his words, somewhat disturbed by this unpleasant revelation. “God, didn’t you know not to trust anyone who supports PETA? They’re fucking monsters, and hypocrites, at that. Stealing pets off people’s porches just to euthanise them…” She shudders at the thought. “Fuck, stealing people’s perfectly healthy pets and killing them is so fucking unnecessary, and inhumane, at that. I don’t know _why_ people still support PETA, they’re a _terrible_ organisation.”

Enjolras laughs dryly. “Yeah, well, I know that now. Blame me for not knowing better at nineteen.”

“I do, actually,” Éponine replies bluntly. “You’re the kind of person to always fact-check instead of running in headfirst, even as a teenager, I’m sure. I can’t believe you didn’t think to fact-check PETA.” She rolls her eyes before a little grin plays at her lips, which are twitching in an evident attempt to hide a smile as she asks, “So how long did you last during this little vegan stint of yours?”

Enjolras’ cheeks flush scarlet. “I barely made it to a week.”

Éponine tosses her head back and laughs out loud. “I knew it.” She then catches sight of the others gathering around the bottomless pit and her eyes light up. She looks up at Enjolras with a mischievous grin on her face, a look that informs him she’ll be scampering off to the edge of the pit at any moment now to do whatever the fuck it is she’s going to do.

“Nice. I’ve always wanted to scream into the void.”

* * *

“Well, that was fun! So long, Kentucky—until we meet again!”

Combeferre rolls his eyes at Courfeyrac’s exclamation as he climbs into the van along with most of the others, for once opting out of joining Courfeyrac, Marius, and Cosette in the minivan; his headphones are sure to come in handy, with how Musichetta takes the wheel and she’s bound to pick some music that the others are almost definitely going to protest.

“No!” he hears Courfeyrac whine behind him. “’Ferre, don’t abandon me! I don’t wanna be alone!”

He turns around and gives Courfeyrac a look. “You won’t be. You’ll have Marius and Cosette with you.”

Courfeyrac pouts and glares. “Not the same.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes, biting his lip to resist an amused smile. “You’ll live.”

“Well, fuck you too!” Courfeyrac calls out grumpily when Combeferre climbs into the van, only to stick his head back out at Courfeyrac’s outburst.

Combeferre scrunches up his face slightly and falls silent as he contemplates his response before saying, “I wouldn’t be opposed to it, but you’re not really my type.”

Courfeyrac is left to let out a stream of disjointed splutters of outrage as Combeferre ducks back into the van, a triumphant grin on his lips while Courfeyrac stands outside the minivan completely dumbfounded, rendered speechless by the audacity of this _bitch_. Marius soon pokes his head out the driver’s window and taps Courfeyrac on the shoulder.

“Are you coming? We’re leaving, like, right now.”

Somehow, Courfeyrac’s legs manage to propel him into the middle seat of the minivan, where he sits in silence, mouth wide open like a goldfish and eyes the size of saucers, a blank look on his face. Cosette turns around to look at him, blue eyes wide.

“Are you okay, buddy?” she asks in concern.

Courfeyrac snaps out of it, clenching his teeth and declaring, “Combeferre is an ass.”

“How so?” Marius glances at Courfeyrac through the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised.

“How am I not his type?” Courfeyrac gestures wildly to himself, an incredulous look on his face. Maybe he’s exacerbating the problem by being a little bitch and making a big deal out of it, but that’s his only skill at besides being able to seduce anyone he finds attractive within five minutes with his expert flirtation skills. “Look at me! I’m _everyone’s_ type!”

Cosette snorts. “Okay.”

The frown on Courfeyrac’s face just becomes even more sour, and he whines, “Marius, your girlfriend’s harassing me!”

Marius turns around to give Courfeyrac a sympathetic look, reaching out to affectionately pat him on the head. “Poor baby.”

Courfeyrac scowls. “Stop babying me.”

Marius simply smiles in amusement and reaches down into the little cup holder between him and Cosette, taking out some Sour Patch Kids and offering it to Courfeyrac. “A snack to make you feel better?”

Courfeyrac’s face scrunches up even further in chagrin before he sullenly nods, muttering, “I’d like that.”

Cosette giggles as Courfeyrac snatches the pack of Sour Patch Kids from Marius and tears it open before grabbing a handful and stuffing them all into his mouth, all while aggressively maintaining eye contact with Marius before the man in question breaks Courfeyrac’s gaze to look straight ahead and start driving, following the other two vehicles onto the road, and the only sound in the car is Miley Cyrus’ voice through the car stereo system for some time, up until they’re back on and speeding down the interstate.

Taking another handful of Sour Patch Kids to stuff into his mouth before he sets the pack down and scoots over to press his face to the window, pitifully staring out at the van, which is driving beside them. He glimpses Combeferre’s face through a window and makes the best puppy eyes he can, only to be met with what looks like a laugh of amusement from Combeferre’s end when he catches sight of Courfeyrac through the window. He mouths something Courfeyrac can’t quite make out—probably something along the lines of “How’s it going?” At least, judging by the look on his face, as if he’s expecting a response.

Courfeyrac responds by flipping Combeferre the bird and scowling at him, mouthing, “Fuck you.”

He sees Combeferre take out his phone, and his own phone buzzes in his pocket moments later, prompting him to pull it out. Huh. It seems like they’ve gotten semi-decent cell service again.

**guiding light: Love you too, munchkin.**

Courfeyrac’s mouth falls open, torn between whether or not he should seethe at the fact that he hasn’t thought to change the contact name he has for Combeferre even with all their previous spats, suppressing his disbelief at Combeferre’s usage of the childhood nickname he had for Courfeyrac. Nowadays, he only ever calls him munchkin when he’s being completely earnest and sincere, and it staggers Courfeyrac somewhat, that Combeferre would call him munchkin now, out of all times. He catches himself smiling slightly as he stares at the words on the screen, his thoughts soon interrupted by Cosette’s voice.

“What’s up?” He looks up, finding that the blonde has turned around and fixed him with a curious gaze.

“Nothing,” Courfeyrac mumbles, doing all he can to wipe the tiny smile off his face. God, Combeferre can be so annoying sometimes, but at the end of the day, he’s still Courfeyrac’s best friend. That should count for something, even if he’s still offended at the fact that he allegedly isn’t Combeferre’s type. “’Ferre texted me.”

“Oh, nice, that means we have cell service again!” Cosette doesn’t bat an eyelash at the fact that Combeferre texted Courfeyrac even with their little spat, turning back around to look at the road ahead.

Finally, Courfeyrac turns his phone off and tucks it back into his pocket after staring at Combeferre’s text long and hard to make sure he isn’t dreaming, leaning forward to rest his chin on the shoulder of Marius’ seat.

“Mar?” he says, hints of a cranky whine present in his intonation.

Marius reaches up with one hand to pat Courfeyrac’s head affably. “What is it, Romeo?”

Courfeyrac closes his eyes and sighs, a little smile playing at his lips at Marius’ little nickname for him, from back when they were roommates in their freshman year. “How am I not Combeferre’s type?” he whines, words slurred together slightly from the way he says the words.

“I don’t know, Courf,” Marius says softly, apologetic.

Cosette tilts her head and asks, “Courfeyrac, I mean you no offence, but why do you care so much whether or not you’re Combeferre’s type?”

“Because I’m _everyone’s_ type,” Courfeyrac grumbles. “I can get anyone to sleep with me if I just talk to them. I’m excellent at flirtation.”

Cosette stifles a snort. “Yeah, see? There are plenty of people out there who’d want to be with you, why do you care if Combeferre doesn’t? I know Marius did at one point.”

Marius’ lips form a little ‘O’ of shock at Cosette’s words, turning scarlet. “Pookie! Why?!”

Cosette grins, laughter in her blue eyes. “He has a right to know you had a crush on him once upon a time, honey nugget.”

A dopey grin finds its way onto Courfeyrac’s face at this revelation, and he coos, “Aww, Mar, you had a crush on me? That’s embarrassing.”

“Believe me, I got over it,” Marius mumbles, face flushed tomato red in mortification. “It went away the moment I saw Cosette.”

“That sounds a little creepy, but yeah, I sure hope it did,” Courfeyrac says, laughing to himself. “You two are gonna be _married_ one day, and I’m gonna be your best man.”

When Marius doesn’t reply, Courfeyrac leans in so his face would be only a mere two inches from Marius’ cheek, fixing him with a determined stare. “I better be your best man.”

“Yes, Courf, you’ll be my best man, I promise,” Marius assures him, still red in the face.

“And the godfather to your future kids?” Courfeyrac bargains.

“Depends on whether or not you’ve established yourself to be responsible enough by the time we have our first kid,” Cosette interjects before Marius can say anything, knowing her almost-fiancé can be a little careless with words sometimes.

“But you’ll definitely be my best man,” Marius quickly adds. “I promise.”

Courfeyrac grins goofily, holding up his pinky. “Pinky promise?”

Marius sighs and nods, looping his own pinky around Courfeyrac’s. “Pinky promise.”

Satisfied, Courfeyrac gives Marius a quick peck on the cheek, resulting in him turning even redder than he already is and evoking laughter from both Courfeyrac and Cosette. Courfeyrac settles back down into his seat, taking his phone out once again.

“Can I have the aux cord?” he asks, looking at Cosette.

She shoots him a dubious look, though Marius is quick to unplug his own phone. “Don’t play something trashy,” the blonde warns.

Courfeyrac simply gives Cosette an innocent smile in return. “Promise I won’t.”

Cosette supposes she can tolerate Jennifer Saunders’ rendition of “Holding Out for a Hero”, even with Courfeyrac wailing along to the music in the background.

The man doesn’t even notice how he still hasn’t gotten his cowboy hat back from Éponine.

* * *

Bahorel stares pointedly out a window, wondering what on fucking earth his life has come to.

Musichetta has taken the wheel, Joly riding shotgun beside her and Bossuet directly behind them, and they’ve had the brilliant idea to turn on all three _High School Musical_ soundtracks on repeat. He’s had to deal with them badly singing along to HSM for three hours now, since his phone fucking _died_ , rendering his headphones utterly useless.

God have mercy on his soul.

Combeferre, having joined them in the van, has once again clamped headphones over his ears and proceeded to ignore the rest of them as he stares out the window at the cars speeding past. Feuilly’s fast asleep in the back, taking up an entire row of seats for himself and lying down, conked out completely despite how Musichetta and Bossuet are hollering out the lyrics to “What I’ve Been Looking For”, Joly snapping his fingers in time to the beat.

“This feeling’s like no other! I want you to know… I’ve never had someone that knows me like you do, the way you do! I’ve never had someone as good for me as you… no one like you! So lonely before I finally found what I’ve been looking for!”

Grantaire’s passed out on Jehan’s shoulder, snoring loudly, while Jehan has earbuds plugging his ears as he rests his head against Grantaire’s, a soft, contented smile on his face as he listens to his music and taps his foot along to the beat. How convenient.

Bahorel feels like screaming his frustrations as Bossuet and Joly launch into yet _another_ godawful rendition of “Breaking Free”, wishing he could break a window and tumble out onto the interstate, no matter how dead he’d end up becoming if he does follow through with such a plan. At this point, he feels like a gruesome death by vehicle would be a better fate than being forced to endure Bossuet’s screech-singing. Don’t get him wrong, Bahorel loves the guy, but _fuck_. The trio are just too much for him sometimes.

He nearly shrieks in relief at the sight of a sign helpfully letting them know of a rest stop coming up in approximately four and a half miles, knowing they’ll stop for gas, to stretch their legs and restock on junk food, all that shit. God, he can’t wait for Bossuet to stop singing. He’d rather not be suffering hearing loss at twenty-one.

“Musichetta!” The woman in question stops singing upon hearing Bahorel holler out her name over the absurdly loud music, and she glances in the rearview mirror to look at him.

“What is it, damn?”

“We’re going to be stopping at that rest stop soon, right?” Bahorel keeps his fingers crossed in his lap, hoping to whatever higher power there might be that they will. They’re a few miles past the state border, having passed the “Welcome to Ohio” sign some time ago, though they still have a _long_ way to go until they reach Cleveland on the shores of Lake Erie.

He holds his breath as Musichetta seems to consider it for a bit before nodding. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure we’re going to. Depends on whether or not Enjy wants to.”

Bahorel deflates. “He better,” he mutters darkly, slumping down in his seat. If not, he’ll have some choice words to say to Enjolras, to say the very least.

Éponine’s truck is in the lead, guiding the rest of them with Enjolras at the wheel and Éponine probably annoying the shit out of him if not for any other reason than the fact that it amuses her, and the sky is a fiery orange, the sun slowly descending on the horizon. Bahorel wonders whether they’ll keep driving on into the darkness or find a nearby motel to crash for the night; that seems like it’ll be one of the things to discuss when they do stop for a short break at the rest area.

Supposing he has nothing better to do, Bahorel turns around to find that Jehan’s closed his eyes, head resting against Grantaire’s with a ghost of a smile on his lips, as the latter snores loudly on the former’s shoulder, knocked out cold. Letting out a low laugh, Bahorel takes his phone out to snap a few quick pictures, maybe to taunt Grantaire with later on. He’s never been much of a touchy-feely person, making him using Jehan’s shoulder as a pillow all the more significant.

He feels like reaching across to startle Grantaire awake, but something in him makes him decide against it. Maybe it’s the utterly relaxed state Grantaire is in, so unlike his usual demeanour.

Bahorel sits back down and forces himself into sitting through Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly singing “Fabulous” extremely loudly and off-key, soon followed by them practically screaming out the lyrics to “Bop to the Top”, until fifteen minutes later, when Bahorel nearly screams in hysterical relief when he sees Enjolras drive Éponine’s truck onto the far side of the road, entering the rest area.

Without missing a beat, Musichetta follows the truck and Bahorel looks behind them to find that the minivan’s following them, which is good, considering how Marius sometimes has no sense of direction. They follow the truck into the parking lot, find vacant spaces to park in, and Bahorel’s more than glad to hop out of the van and stretch out his legs and _finally_ be rid of Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly’s incessant singing. Bahorel thinks he can still hear it echoing in his ears and cringes.

Everyone is soon hopping out of their respective vehicles, Éponine still donning that stupid cowboy hat she swiped from Courfeyrac earlier at the caves, and she has the most smug, self-satisfied smirk on her face as Enjolras comes stumbling off the truck, obvious exasperation fogging in his eyes. Bahorel wonders what on earth Éponine could have possibly done to him to make him look so done with everyone and everything and particularly her bullshit.

“Gather round, folks!” Courfeyrac hollers out, bounding over to grab Combeferre by the arm and drag him over so the both of them will be standing with Enjolras. “So how are we gonna do this thing?”

“Do what thing?” Bossuet asks, puzzled.

“It’ll be night soon,” Combeferre clarifies. “We still have three hours and a half until we get to Cleveland. Do you guys want to find a motel to get some rest or keep on driving and check into a hotel once we’re in the city?”

“What time will it be when we arrive if we keep on driving?” Feuilly calls out.

Combeferre checks his watch, quickly does the calculations in his head. “It won’t be _that_ late, just around ten o’clock.”

“Well, let’s keep on driving, then!” Éponine claps her hands briskly, just about to turn around and hop back into her truck before Courfeyrac speaks.

“No, we have to vote on it!” he points out.

Éponine rolls her eyes and places her foot back down on the concrete. “Anyone in favour of driving on and checking into a nice hotel at ten o’clock instead of finding a shitty motel to sleep in at nine, raise your hand.”

Eight hands instantly shoot up into the air in addition to Éponine’s. Joly, Marius, Cosette, Jehan, Enjolras, Combeferre, Feuilly, Bahorel.

The brunette turns to Courfeyrac and smirks triumphantly, tipping the hat she previously pilfered from him at him and counting down in her head until the moment he realises it’s his stolen cowboy hat.

She gets to twenty-seven seconds before Courfeyrac lets out an undignified squawk as it finally hits him.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> side note: bossuet still has hair in this fic because he starts balding at twenty-five and right now they're only twenty-one, hope that might clear up any confusion there may be asdjgahkjsgfakhjsgfkjhsgdkfjhgskhj


	7. pour another glass of that rock 'n' roll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's been six months but i can explain

* * *

Éponine hops up to sit on the hood of her truck and swing her legs as she watches a few of the others walk off, either to grab some food or go to the bathroom or whatever the fuck, with a little pout on her face—after chasing her around the parking lot, Courfeyrac’s triumphant in procuring his cowboy hat back from her. It’s now upon his head once again as he grabs Combeferre by the hand to drag him towards the little convenience store, undoubtedly to spend money on even more junk food. As if they don’t have enough already.

Marius and Cosette are by the minivan, conversing between themselves, as Grantaire leans back against the van, Jehan beside him with his head resting on Grantaire’s shoulder, the two of them standing there in comfortable silence. Feuilly has earbuds in, blocking out the rest of the world, leaving Enjolras with no choice but to approach Éponine and stand by her as she swings her legs over the hood of her truck.

A grin makes its way onto Éponine’s face, almost coy, as Enjolras goes to stand by her, and she drawls, “What up, pretty boy?”

“Don’t talk to me right now, I’m tired,” Enjolras mutters in response, a little too snappishly.

Éponine raises an eyebrow. “Ain’t that a way to greet a lady,” she snarks, sarcasm lacing her tone like venom.

“I’m sorry. I’m just… I really am really tired right now.” Enjolras lets out a ghastly sigh and brings his hand up to rub his temple as he leans against the hood, elbow resting against the metal. “And you are the farthest from a lady I have ever met.”

Éponine exaggerates a hurt little gasp, pressing a hand to her heart. “Sticks and stones, Gabriel.”

Enjolras scrunches up his face slightly at being referred to by his first name; he’s never been used to that. In all his life, only his parents have ever called him by his first name. Combeferre and Courfeyrac used to call him Gabe since they met when they were four up until their junior year of high school. He catches himself kind of liking the way his name so easily rolls off Éponine’s tongue, though. Not that he’d ever tell her that lest he wants her to ridicule him into oblivion.

Then again, what does he have to lose? She already does that on a regular basis anyway.

In his attempt to be more civil, he asks, “So how are you holding up?”

Éponine pulls a face. “Courf’s an ass,” she declares.

“To be fair, you _did_ steal his hat away from him.”

“Yeah, well, I was doing us all a favour. He looked horrible in it. You said so yourself that it suited me better than it suited him.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, resisting a laugh. “It seems I may have inflated your ego slightly.”

Éponine scoffs and tosses her hair over her shoulder. Well, she tries to—she can’t do it as well as she used to, with how her hair just barely brushes her shoulders now since she got it cut. “What ego?”

“You’re incorrigible.” Enjolras sighs and brushes some hair out of his eyes, oblivious to the way Éponine is observing him a little too closely as he does so.

Éponine grins, affecting an atrocious British accent as she makes a big show out of thanking him, saying, “Why, thank you, my good sir! Cheers to you as well!”

Enjolras sighs, vaguely recalling how she’s mentioned that she’s saving a bag of weed for sometime later on the road trip, so he asks, “Are you high right now?”

“I don’t smell like weed, do I?” Éponine gestures to herself, vehemently shaking her head. “Nah, you’d know if I’m stoned. I am perfectly _not_ stoned at the moment, thank you very much.”

“Forgive me for thinking otherwise,” Enjolras says sarcastically, crossing his arms across his chest as he looks out across the parking lot.

Éponine reaches over to lightly shove him. “You’re annoying!”

“If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black,” Enjolras swiftly rebuts, turning to look at her with raised eyebrows.

Éponine scrunches up her entire face at him and exaggerates a feigned scowl. “Low blow, pretty boy. Low blow.”

She’s about to say more before her gaze drifts off to Grantaire and Jehan, eyes narrowing at the sight of them leaning against the side of the van without so much as an inch of space between them, Jehan’s eyes closed and his head resting on Grantaire’s shoulder despite him being a little more than three inches taller, arms crossed across his chest. The look on his face is peaceful, contented; likewise, Grantaire has the ghost of a goofy little smile playing at his lips as he steals brief sideways glances at Jehan every now and then.

For someone who talks a good deal about staunchly not believing in love, Grantaire sure does look smitten with the hopeless romantic whenever he so much as takes a sideways glance at him, Éponine can’t help but note. Or maybe that’s just her mind blowing things way out of proportion again like it tends to do.

She leans over to hiss at Enjolras. “Psst!”

He jumps, startled as he turns around at the sound of the low laughter that follows. An Éponine trademark. “Don’t do that, Jesus Christ,” he hisses back, cheeks flushing red in slight embarrassment at being so damn alarmed by something he should probably be used to at this point.

“Look over there.” She promptly ignores his words and gestures to Jehan and Grantaire across the parking lot from them, chin practically resting on Enjolras’ shoulder as they look at the pair across the parking lot from them. Her lips twist into a dangerous, lecherous little grin as she watches them; she’s had her suspicions, but this practically guarantees it.

She’s assumed Jehan’s developed some sort of crush on Grantaire for a while now—just a couple of months ago, when Grantaire really started letting his walls down to his now ex-girlfriend Claudine and constantly gushed about how she was one of the best things that had ever happened to him, Éponine noticed how Jehan seemed to be torn between happiness that his friend’s finally found love and what she still thinks was slight longing for Grantaire. Jehan always seems to go out of his way to be so kind to Grantaire whenever everyone else (read: mostly Éponine) is ragging on him. Then again, Jehan goes out of his way to be kind to everyone. He’s just an absolute angel sweetheart like that.

Maybe she’s reading too much into this. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

Enjolras keeps his gaze trained on Jehan and Grantaire for a while before he questions somewhat huffily, “So what am I supposed to be looking at, exactly?”

“Just—look at them!” Éponine gesticulates wildly at the pair, grumbling when Enjolras still doesn’t seem to get it, a blank look upon his face. “Ugh, you’re hopeless. Never mind.”

They both fall silent again as Éponine ponders what she’s seeing—she’s well aware of how it’s never too early to move on, but judging by the way Grantaire is still so bitter about Claudine dumping his ass, Jehan seems to be shaping up to be a rebound more than anything. It worries her—she’s been in a couple of rebound relationships before, and they never ended well. She doesn’t want Grantaire to make the same mistake.

She resolves to pounce on him about it later.

“D’you think we’ll wind up having to share rooms again in Cleveland?” Éponine questions, looking to Enjolras once again.

“Well, there’s no way we’re going to spend all that money on separate rooms for us single people,” Enjolras replies. “So yes, we’ll probably have to share hotel rooms.”

Éponine grins, mischievous, wicked. “Would you object to us rooming together again?”

Enjolras shrugs noncommittally. “It depends on whether or not you’re willing to sleep in actual clothes instead of simply your underwear,” he tells her, wry as can be.

“Jesus fuck, get over that already.” She shoves him, rolling her eyes hard, before she gazes off into the distance, watching as Courfeyrac skips jauntily out of the convenience store with Combeferre begrudgingly lugging shopping bags behind him, filled to the brim and nearly bursting from the amount of junk food they purchased. She catches a glimpse of a party-size bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos among them and resolves to steal it later.

Combeferre approaches the truck once he’s shoved much of the shopping bags into the back of the van, walking over to stand by Enjolras, who’s got his phone out, as Éponine pushes her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “How are we looking, chief?”

“I’m booking us hotel rooms as we speak,” Enjolras replies, not looking up from his phone. “How do you feel about the Hyatt Regency at the Arcade?”

“Classy. I like it.” Combeferre nods in agreement, looking over Enjolras’ shoulder as he books them their rooms. “Six rooms? So I take it we’ll be sharing?”

“Yes, in pairs,” Enjolras confirms. “And Joly, Bossuet, and Chetta will be sharing a room.”

Combeferre steals a glance at Éponine, who’s clamped her headphones over her ears and has her eyes closed as she bobs her head along to whatever music it is she’s listening to. “So you’ll be sharing with Éponine again?” he asks Enjolras in a low voice, raising his eyebrows.

Enjolras shrugs. “I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

Combeferre smiles, teasing evident in the look in his eyes. “Doesn’t she tend to sleep in her underwear?”

Enjolras turns pink. “Jesus Christ, how do _you_ know about that?” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head incredulously.

Combeferre bites his lip to keep himself from laughing out loud at the aghast look on Enjolras’ face. “Grantaire. He wouldn’t shut up about how absolutely _hilarious_ it was to see you and her arguing while she was in her underwear.”

“Goddamnit.” Enjolras sighs, rolling his eyes. “Like I said, I’m sure we’ll work something out, even if she does sleep in her underwear. If we aren’t sharing a bed, then it won’t bother me, she can sleep in her underwear all she wants. I don’t care.”

Combeferre isn’t going to say anything, but he thinks Enjolras is trying just a tad bit too hard to convince him—though Combeferre thinks it sounds more like the blond is trying to convince himself—that he won’t be bothered by Éponine sleeping in the same room as him while barely clothed. With her fiery personality, her slight build, and her stunning looks, she’s a knockout, and anyone, even Enjolras, would have to be a fool not to see that.

“Sure you won’t,” Combeferre voices these doubts out loud, earning himself an elbow to the ribs from Enjolras.

“I _won’t_ ,” the blond insists, cheeks flushed pink as he shoots a cold glare Combeferre’s way.

“Hey, fuck you, I’m hot, you should be _grateful_ that I’ve graced you with the sight of my rockin’ bod,” Éponine interjects sharply from behind them, making Enjolras jump, startled out of his wits.

It takes him a while to register what’s just happened before he lets out a weird little incredulous sort of laugh out of reflex, cursing, “ _Fuck_ , ’Ponine, stop doing that!”

Combeferre laughs upon hearing the nickname Enjolras has for the brunette. “’Ponine?”

“I know, right?” Éponine remarks, grinning. “I’m irresistible.” She leans forward to whisper to Combeferre conspiratorially, “He just started calling me that one day. I kind of like it. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“I heard you, you know,” Enjolras sighs, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to smooth it down.

“Tell me when I asked,” Éponine shoots back, rolling her eyes.

Combeferre lets out a funny little noise, shaking his head. “Dear God, will you two ever stop arguing?”

“Hey, FYI, I like arguing with pretty boy over here,” Éponine informs Combeferre. “Gets me going. It’s fun seeing him all riled up, I love messing with him. Sometimes something _intelligent_ comes out of that pretty mouth of his, too! Can you believe?”

“We get it, Éponine,” Enjolras mutters, rubbing his temple. “You think I’m an idiot.”

Éponine’s about to open her mouth to say more before she realises that everyone’s back in the parking lot, waiting to get back on the road. Some of them are in their respective vehicles already, so Éponine slides off the hood of her truck and turns to fix Enjolras with a brief but meaningful gaze, mouthing, “Later.”

Enjolras almost thinks he imagines it, standing there stock still until Éponine sighs in exasperation and tells him impatiently, “Come _on_ , we have to get going. You can go stand around looking pretty all you want once we get to Cleveland.”

Pursing his lips in slight bewilderment at her words, Enjolras gets into the passenger seat of the truck as Éponine takes the wheel, turning on her ‘oldies but goodies’ playlist as they drive out of the parking lot, leading the rest and beginning to loudly sing along to the first song that comes on.

“They say we’re young and we don’t know, we won’t find out until we grow; well, I don’t know if that’s all true, ’cause you got me and baby, I got you…”

Éponine’s wailing her way through both Cher’s and Sonny’s verses, effectively turning what should be a duet into a solo, and she gets about halfway when Enjolras reaches out to turn the music down before she has the chance to slap his hand away, asking her, “So what were you about to say earlier?”

She stops singing, turning her head for the briefest of moments to give him a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“Earlier, when you were. You know.” Enjolras fidgets slightly in his seat, searching his mind for the right words. “You were making fun of me again, as per usual, talking to Combeferre about how only sometimes I say something intelligent. I know you think I’m an idiot. You were about to say something else, but then we had to leave.” He clears his throat, biting down on his lip. “What was it you were going to say?”

Éponine shrugs, still exuding an air of nonchalance, saying simply, “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

Enjolras furrows his brow. “You don’t?”

Éponine laughs and shakes her head. “There’s a difference between getting a kick out of making fun of you and actually thinking you’re an idiot, pretty boy. I thought you out of all people would’ve gotten that I was being facetious.”

“I didn’t think you knew the proper usage of words like ‘facetious’, for one,” Enjolras remarks wryly, hiding his amusement at her matter-of-fact usage of the word. “And do forgive me for being slow to process sarcasm. I’m not the best at understanding social cues.”

“You’re forgiven,” Éponine replies flippantly, grinning at him. Enjolras rolls his eyes, but he can’t keep himself from smiling, just a little bit. For some reason, he finds something, the tiniest little thing, endearing about who’s probably the most annoying little shit he’s ever met.

It’s probably the dimples. Enjolras doesn’t think he knows anyone who’s able to resist dimples.

Three songs later, Éponine’s hollering her way through “Somebody to Love” when she abruptly stops and turns the music down, earning herself a look of utter shock and disbelief from Enjolras. She laughs dryly—the guy likes Queen, it seems.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” Éponine says again, repeating her words from earlier. “On the contrary, you’re one of the smartest people I know.” She pauses, contemplating her next words before she says, “I guess that’s why I like picking arguments with you so much. You’re fun to debate with, even when it’s over stupid meaningless bullshit.”

A look of shock at Éponine’s candid words has settled upon Enjolras’ face and he stares blankly ahead, not even noticing how Éponine turns the music back up and starts singing along again, drumming on the steering wheel in time to the beat. It’s only when the next song begins and Éponine speaks up again that Enjolras is brought out of his trance.

“Close your mouth, pretty boy,” she advises him lightly, humming along to the music. “You’ll catch flies.”

As Enjolras gives her a sideways glance, teeth digging slightly into his bottom lip, he notices the contented smile on her face as she slides her sunglasses down onto the bridge of her nose and sings along to the music, and he can’t help but smile. She really is kind of endearing when she isn’t actively being a demonic little shit hell bent on irritating him into the sunset.

Plus, she really does have a nice singing voice.

“I don’t know what it is that makes me love you so; I only know I never want to let you go, ’cause you started something; can’t you see that ever since we met you’ve had a hold on me? It happens to be true—I only want to be with you!…”

* * *

Driving at night into the city proves to be somewhat therapeutic in itself, with the dim yellow glow of the streetlamps illuminating the streets as the occasional pedestrian strolls by while a car drives by here and there. Cleveland seems to be drifting off to sleep, though white lights can be seen here and there through the curtained windows of apartment buildings; as they drive towards the heart of the city, it’s beginning to look more and more awake—more lights, more people, more everything. Jehan stares out the window in awe as they pull up to the hotel, located inside the Arcade downtown; it’s like nothing he’s ever seen, glittering splendour abound in its exterior, and he can’t imagine what it must be like on the inside.

Once they’ve parked their respective vehicles, it’s into the lobby they go, bellboys pushing carts on which all their luggage is piled high on into the hotel after them. It looks like the hotels he and his parents would stay at on vacation while he was growing up, big, luxurious, opulent, elaborate light fixtures dangling from the sky-high ceilings. Even after a childhood of growing up in luxury, it’s still overwhelming.

Jehan finds himself a spot where the others have gathered in the lobby as Enjolras and Combeferre walk up to the front desk to get themselves checked in, humming softly to himself and looking around at his surroundings, trying to put a name to the architectural style. He’s just about got it before Éponine slides into the empty space on the sofa beside him.

“Hello, Mr. Prouvaire,” she chirps in greeting, a little too bubbly, at least by Éponine’s standards. Jehan looks down into his lap, an endeared laugh escaping his lips at her welcome though uncharacteristic cheerfulness.

“Hi, Eppy,” he replies, as one does.

“So who’re you going to be sharing a room with?” she asks, swinging her legs up onto the sofa and tucking them sideways underneath her with little regard for any potential mess.

Jehan shrugs. “I’m not sure. You?”

“If Enjolras can stand me for long enough, I’ll probably room with him,” Éponine says. “If not, then I’ll go with R.”

She looks up, instantly noting how Jehan’s face falls for just a fraction of a second before that sweet smile is back on his face. “Or I can go with Enjolras regardless, so you can room with R,” she adds.

Jehan, almost unnoticeably, stiffens. “What makes you think I’d want to room with Grantaire?” he asks, rather curious. He does, but she doesn’t need to know that. Not yet, anyway.

Éponine grins, reaches up to ruffle his hair. “Well, don’t you?”

She laughs good-naturedly at how the faintest spots of pink bloom in Jehan’s cheeks, confirming her suspicions. “S’alright, I can handle Enjolras.”

“But can _he_ handle _you_?” Jehan finds himself asking before he can stop himself. A sheepish look crosses his face at the realisation of what he just blurted out as Éponine throws her head back and cackles.

“He’ll learn to in time,” she says breezily, tucking some stray hair behind her ear with a smug grin on her face. “I mean, I’d expect being stuck in a vehicle with me for hours on end would build up his tolerance for me.”

She’s about to say something else before she jerks her head to the side, having seen Enjolras and Combeferre come back to the rest of them with their room keys out of the corner of her eye. She hops to her feet, bounding over to him as Jehan sits and watches.

He cracks a little smile at how Éponine and Enjolras engage in brief, seemingly heated conversation before he begrudgingly hands her a key card, watching as she reaches up to ruffle his blond curls with an infuriating smirk on her face before she flounces away. For a bit, Jehan zones out as Combeferre passes out the keys, only coming back to earth when Grantaire plops down beside him on the sofa, waving a key card in his face with a grin.

“Roomies?” he offers, and oddly enough, his tone of voice is vaguely tentative, a sharp contrast to the cheeky grin gracing his lips.

Jehan smiles. “Of course.”

It takes them two elevator rides to get to their floor, everyone finding their respective rooms and slamming the doors shut behind them. Jehan drags his suitcase into the room he and Grantaire will be sharing, finding that he’s already claimed the bed closest to the window, having kicked off his shoes, now sprawled out against the sheets. Jehan laughs softly, shaking his head as he leaves his suitcase at the foot of his bed and takes off his shoes to place neatly by the door.

After digging around in his suitcase for a bit, Jehan finds some pyjamas, informing Grantaire that he’ll be taking a shower before he disappears into the bathroom. Grantaire kicks back, placing his hands underneath his head and letting out a yawn.

The view from their hotel room window is fantastic—he can glimpse Cuyahoga River in the distance, city lights illuminating the night. He sighs as he imagines what they’ll get up to tomorrow—maybe stop by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, maybe go to the beaches on the shores of Lake Erie. Or maybe they can the beach-going for when they go down to Florida, his home state.

A corner of Grantaire’s mouth turns up in an impish grin at the thought of how maybe they could pay his sister a spontaneous visit.

His thoughts are promptly interrupted by Jehan emerging from the bathroom, rubbing at his soaked hair with a small towel, clad in boxers and a Taylor Swift hoodie, from her 1989 era, it seems. Grantaire brings his hand to his mouth to stifle a fond little laugh, quickly quieting down when a miffed look crosses Jehan’s face.

“It’s cute, I swear,” Grantaire quickly clarifies, flashing a grin at Jehan, who visibly relaxes. Honestly, if Grantaire didn’t know better, he’d think a faint blush finds its way onto Jehan’s face.

He dismisses it, going back to staring out the window at the Cleveland skyline and humming softly to himself, missing how Jehan stares at him for a split second too long before climbing into his own bed and falling asleep.

* * *

“Enj _definitely_ has the hots for Éponine,” Courfeyrac pronounces the moment Combeferre steps out of the bathroom, dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his waist.

Combeferre shoots him a strange look, going over to his bed, where he’s placed some neatly folded sleep clothes for him to change into. Courfeyrac wonders why he didn’t just bring them into the bathroom with him so he could change in there, but he quickly finds that he doesn’t mind, making no attempt to disguise the fact that he’s ogling Combeferre’s abs as he pulls on a pair of boxer shorts before dropping the towel from around his waist. As he holds his shirt in his hands, he senses Courfeyrac blatantly checking him out and looks up.

Trying his best to keep himself from blushing and completely, utterly failing, Combeferre manages to deadpan without tripping over his words, “Enjoying the view?”

Courfeyrac doesn’t look up, his gaze still fixed on Combeferre’s chest as a smirk creeps onto his face. “Why, yes, I am.”

Combeferre’s cheeks burn scarlet. Well, that backfired.

He rapidly pulls his shirt over his head, making Courfeyrac snort at the awful science pun on his shirt, earning himself another look from Combeferre as he sits down on his bed, leaning back against the headboard.

“Why are you so sure Enjolras likes Éponine?” Combeferre asks with an arched eyebrow, absently tugging at the blanket of the bed, attempting to pull it out from where it’s tucked into the mattress.

Courfeyrac shrugs, flopping back against the sheets. “I dunno. He has a lot more patience for her bullshit than he does for mine.”

“It comes with knowing you for nearly two decades,” Combeferre snarks, narrowly avoiding the pillow Courfeyrac throws at him. “Well, he’s always been one to give someone the benefit of a doubt. I’m sure he’s just being friendly.”

“Yeah-huh. Okay.” Courfeyrac stares off into space for a bit, lost in his thoughts before he muses dreamily, “I wonder if anyone else on this trip is harbouring any secret feelings towards someone else.”

Combeferre nearly chokes on his own spit at Courfeyrac’s words, spluttering, “What—what makes you think that?”

Courfeyrac looks over, shooting Combeferre a weird look and wondering why the fuck he’d choose _that_ moment to become completely incoherent. “I was just thinking out loud. Damn. No need to get so worked up, babe.”

Combeferre bites down on his lip and tenses up, mostly because of the nickname Courfeyrac calls him without so much as a second thought, though thankfully, Courfeyrac, never having been the most observant person, doesn’t quite notice. But still.

He yawns then, stretching out against the sheets, and Combeferre is struck by how _small_ Courfeyrac is. Seriously. He’s positively tiny compared to the rest of the boys.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud to Courfeyrac. The man well aware of his short stature, and he will forever be bitter because of it.

“I’ma go to sleep,” Courfeyrac announces, crawling underneath the blankets and curling into himself, making himself comfortable. Combeferre’s lips twitch as he attempts to suppress a smile at the admittedly adorable sight.

“Good night, munchkin,” he murmurs, just barely loud enough for Courfeyrac to hear. Combeferre doesn’t see it, but Courfeyrac smiles to himself, falling asleep not even moments after, he’s so tired.

Combeferre blows out a long-winded sigh. What he expected to be nothing but a stupid middle school crush on his childhood friend shouldn’t have gone on this long until they’re well into college, but here they are.

Combeferre turns over and buries his face in a pillow, groaning to himself in frustration. Of all the people his dumb twelve-year-old self could have gone for, it’s fucking _Adrien Courfeyrac_ , the most obnoxious, infuriating, self-centred person he has _ever_ met, and what’s worse, those feelings are _still_ there after nearly ten fucking years. It irritates him to no end that they refuse to go away, even with the tremendous amount of snark he directs at Courfeyrac in his own attempt to overcompensate for his feelings. To the point that he’s told Courfeyrac directly to his face that he isn’t his type.

Which, alas, he absolutely is.

Of all people, he ended up falling for _Courfeyrac_. A temporary lapse in judgement as a twelve-year-old resulted in nine goddamn years—and counting—of repressed, unrequited feelings.

It’s gotten so bad, he hasn’t told anyone about it all these years, not even Enjolras, his closest confidant. Besides, everyone else would probably make fun of him anyway, because who in their right mind seriously falls for the relentless, notorious flirt that is Courfeyrac, who’s been known to hit on anything that moves?

He should probably talk to someone about this. After all, bottling up one’s feelings has been found to be unhealthy. Being a pre-med major, Combeferre is well aware of that.

He lifts up his head, stealing a glance over at Courfeyrac. Has it taken him that little time to toss and turn enough until he’s sprawled out like a starfish against the sheets like that?

Combeferre cracks a little smile. Courfeyrac’s always slept like that, ever since they were kids—sprawled out all over the bed, hogging so much space.

Maybe he’ll ignore his feelings. Just for a little while more. It can’t hurt.

* * *

Éponine’s in the shower, the sound of her voice able to be heard over the running water, and she’s singing Backstreet Boys at the top of her lungs when Enjolras hears a knock on the door. Getting up to go over to the door, he peers through the little peephole, finding Feuilly standing there, hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. Opening the door, he gives Feuilly a curious look, gesturing for him to come in.

“Why are you here?” Enjolras asks, not unkindly, and Feuilly gives him a wry look as he goes to sit down on the bed nearer to the door once he’s taken off his shoes.

“Wow, can’t I talk to one of my best friends once in a while?” Feuilly responds with a good-natured roll of his eyes. “I know this may come as a surprise to you, but sometimes it’s not that deep, Enjolras.”

Enjolras bites down on his lip, sheepish as he smiles at Feuilly. “Noted.”

Feuilly listens, smiling in amusement at the muffled sound of Éponine singing “I Want It That Way” in the shower, somehow transitioning into NSYNC once that’s over, now belting out “Bye Bye Bye”. “She sure likes her boy bands,” Feuilly comments.

Enjolras rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “She’s got the strangest music taste I’ve ever seen in a person. One moment she’ll be singing something I’ve never heard of, and the next she’s yelling along to old boy band hits.”

“How is sharing a room with her working out?” Feuilly enquires, arching an eyebrow.

Enjolras shrugs. “It’s alright, I suppose. She sings an awful lot, but it’s not as if I mind terribly.”

Feuilly listens for a little while more, remarking, “Well, she’s got a nice voice. It’s a lot better than having to listen to Marius and Cosette having sex next door.”

Enjolras pulls a face, rather disgusted. Leave it to clueless Marius to have no regard for other people’s comfort like that. “I could have done without that information, thank you very much.”

Feuilly barks out a laugh, reaching out to pat Enjolras on the shoulder. “Three guesses why I came here?” he says dryly. He leans back against the pillows on Enjolras’ bed, stretching out his legs. “Actually, you know what? Tell me what Combeferre and Courfeyrac were like as kids.”

Enjolras purses his lips, rather perplexed. “Why?”

“Why not?” Feuilly reasons, laughing once again. “Have they changed much? I want to know.”

Enjolras thinks back. “Not that I recall, no,” he says, shaking his head, the corners of his mouth turning up in a little smile at the memories as he runs his fingers through his blond hair. “Courfeyrac’s always been the most outgoing out of the three of us. Combeferre was kind of shy back in elementary school; he used to speak with a stutter before he started going to speech therapy in our freshman year. It’s funny—I’d need five more hands to be able to count how many people Courfeyrac has ‘dated’—” Enjolras makes a point of making finger quotes, evoking a snigger from Feuilly “—but Combeferre’s never had a serious crush on someone. At least, I don’t think so. He used to have those stupid playground crushes most elementary students do, but once we turned twelve, that just… stopped, for some reason.”

“Huh.” Feuilly lets out a low whistle, mulling it over. “The two of them act like an old married couple.”

Enjolras snorts, louder than he probably intended it to be. “Oh, God. You’ve noticed as well.”

“I think the only people who haven’t are Courf and ’Ferre themselves,” Feuilly points out wryly. “Do you think there’s something going on there?”

“I’ve always suspected,” Enjolras admits, toying with a corner of the duvet. “But they both tell me everything if they can’t tell each other, particularly Combeferre. Neither of them have said anything yet, so I’m assuming no, at least as of right now.”

“Do you have any pictures of yourselves from when you were kids?” Feuilly asks, swiftly changing the subject. With a sigh, Enjolras takes out his phone, unlocking it to show him one picture from his thirteenth birthday—the three of them are gathered in front of his birthday cake, Courfeyrac flashing a big gap-toothed grin at the camera, half a head shorter than both Enjolras and Combeferre, the latter with a shy smile on his face and enormous glasses perched upon his nose, the former just staring straight into the camera, almost scowling. Feuilly snorts.

“Well, you looked positively delightful,” he remarks sarcastically, a dry laugh escaping his lips. “When was this?”

“My thirteenth birthday,” Enjolras replies with a roll of his eyes.

Feuilly stares at the picture a little while more, saying mostly to himself, wistfully, “I remember my thirteenth birthday.”

“Wasn’t that your bar mitzvah?” Enjolras asks.

Feuilly nods. “Yeah. My parents weren’t able to afford a big party, but I was thankful for what I did get.”

Enjolras presses his lips together, until they form a straight line. “You know, sometimes I wish I could have had that.”

“Why, what did _you_ have?” Feuilly asks, unable to resist a smile. He knows just as well as the others do that Enjolras was raised Catholic, and he has quite a lot to say about the church now that he no longer considers himself a part of it, having some sort of a love-hate relationship with it. It’s become the topic of many a drunken rant during the parties they host.

Enjolras shoots Feuilly a sour look. “Do you really want me to get into this again?”

Feuilly laughs. “Sure, why not? You get so worked up whenever you talk about it, it’s hilarious.”

Disappointingly, for Feuilly, at least, that’s when Éponine finally decides to get out of the shower, clad in sleep shorts and a sports bra, attempting to rub the water out of her thick hair with a towel. She seems unfazed at the sight of Feuilly, merely greeting him before going over to plop down cross-legged on her bed and continue to concentrate on drying her hair with a towel.

Feuilly gets up. “Well, I guess I’ll be going! See you in the morning, Enjolras.” He nods at Éponine, who clicks her tongue and salutes him with a grin in response. “Éponine.”

“Good night!” she calls out as Feuilly walks out, closing the door behind them, the automatic lock clicking into place. She looks at Enjolras, waggling her eyebrows. “So what’d you two talk about?”

“Your incurable love for boy bands,” Enjolras deadpans, earning himself a pillow to the head. “No, I’m kidding. Well, no, I’m not; we talked about how you like to sing boy band hits sometimes, but mostly we were talking about Combeferre and Courfeyrac.”

Éponine snorts, leaning back against the pillows, having finally given up on attempting to dry out her hair. God, it gives her nightmares to think about how much more difficult it was back when it was long, before she cut it off so it’d be shoulder-length. “Do you really have nothing better to do?”

“You were the one who attempted to make a bet with me on the outcome of their relationship—although really, it’s more of a lack thereof—near the beginning of this road trip,” Enjolras rebuts.

Éponine throws another pillow at him. “No need to get snippy, pretty boy. I was being _facetious_.” She eyes the two pillows she’d thrown at him, lying there on the floor after having bounced off of him. “Hey, could you get those for me?”

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras does as she requests, bending over to pick the pillows up and hand them back to her. She accepts with a toothy smile, and it should be illegal for her to look as cute as she does when she does that, with those dimples of hers. “Thanks, pretty boy! Turns out you can be of some use to me after all.”

Enjolras laughs before he can disguise it with a cough. And she’s back.

If anything, Éponine just grins even more. “So you’re not made of stone after all. Good to know.”

She falls silent for a little while more, before she says, “What’s so wrong about liking boy bands?”

“Nothing at all,” Enjolras replies, quite truthfully.

“All that music I listened to back in middle school still fucking slaps,” Éponine points out. “That shit still goes hard as hell. I’ve decided to finally embrace it.”

A contemplative look crosses her face, as if she’s planning on saying more before she decides against it, simply pulls the blankets up to her neck and curls up, head against the fluffed-up pillows. “Good night, pretty boy,” she says, closing her eyes, and it’s off to never-never land she goes.

Enjolras cracks the barest hint of a smile, saying back nearly inaudibly, “Good night, ’Ponine.”

* * *

The first thing Marius hears when he wakes up in the morning is the sound of the incessant ringing of the phone on the nightstand.

Blinking, disoriented due to literally having just woken up, he looks around, Cosette’s weight against him as she clings to him in their sleep, the both of them unclothed. He notices the telephone on the nightstand, ringing unceasingly, and he buries his face in a pillow and groans loud and long as he reaches out to pick it up, blindly feeling around for it before he finally has it in his grasp. Bringing the phone to his ear, he’s greeted by the sound of Courfeyrac’s voice.

_“Fucking hell, you finally picked up!”_ he screeches, forcing Marius to hold the phone a little bit away from his phase as Cosette groans and shifts slightly in his arms, not quite awake.

“What is it, Courf?” Marius asks groggily, rubbing at his eyes with a fist.

_“We’re going down for breakfast soon,”_ Courfeyrac informs him, affecting a haughty tone of voice. _“You have thirty minutes. Everyone else is still arguing about whether we should go out or have breakfast in the dining hall.”_

“Good to know,” Marius mumbles, hanging up before Courfeyrac has the chance to say anything else. He nudges Cosette, who stirs in his arms but still doesn’t wake. “Pookie? We gotta wake up now,” he coaxes softly.

Cosette buries her face in his shoulder. “No.”

Marius presses a kiss to the top of her head as she curls into him even more, her eyes pointedly squeezed shut. “Come on, baby cakes,” he cajoles, stroking her hair. “We need to be downstairs with the others in thirty minutes, or they’ll _leave us_.” He places emphasis on the words ‘leave us’, growing anxious at the thought of that actually happening.

Cosette lifts up her head, scrunching up her entire face as she frowns, having wanted to sleep in some more. Although that’s partly her own fault, for initiating intercourse last night. The space between her legs is still a bit sore.

“I’m going to go shower,” she says, sitting up and scooting over to slide off the bed. “Feel free to join me, if you want. Or not. Up to you!”

With that, she disappears into the bathroom, leaving Marius lying there in bed, naked, tangled up the sheets. He lets out a long-winded sigh, placing his hands underneath his head as he recalls the events of last night, a furious blush rising to his cheeks at the thought. They’ve been together for almost three years and he still can’t believe she ever went for a guy like him.

Unbeknownst to Cosette, he’s already got a ring picked out, hidden in the depths of his overstuffed suitcase, where she’d never find it amid the mess. He’s just waiting for the right moment to propose. It’s got to be grand; something worthy enough for a woman as incredible and resilient as Cosette. Marius is considering consulting Jehan about it. Maybe he’ll manage to pull him away at breakfast for a one-on-one conversation.

Speaking of breakfast, he really should be getting ready.

Cosette’s quick to shower, striding out of the bathroom with her hair wrapped up in a towel and her makeup already done, wearing one of the hotel-provided bathrobes and going over to Marius’ suitcase. When she sees him tense up as she approaches it, she stops. “Is it okay if I borrow something of yours?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.

Marius visibly relaxes. “Yes! Sure! Go right ahead!”

Surprise crosses Cosette’s face for a split second at his excessive enthusiasm, but she says nothing about it, digging around for a bit, heedless of how Marius holds his breath behind her. She finds a simple baby-blue button-up shirt of his, throwing it on over her underwear and buttoning it up before she slaps a wide chestnut-brown belt around her waist and rolls the sleeves up to her elbows, tightening the belt and beaming at herself in the mirror, twirling around. She’s effectively turned his shirt into a dress.

She goes over the table on which she’s set down her backpack, fishing out a few hair elastics and bobby pins, and as she’s tying her hair into two pigtails, she asks over her shoulder, “How much time do we have left?”

Oh, shit. Marius forgot Courfeyrac only gave them thirty minutes to get ready.

He picks his phone up off the nightstand. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Alright, that should be enough time.” Cosette gesticulates towards the bathroom, looking pointedly at her boyfriend and laughing. “Go shower!”

Marius does as he’s told, scrambling to get out of bed and hastily grab some clothes out of his suitcase before he dashes into the bathroom, slamming the door shut a little too loudly in his wake. Cosette laughs as she braids her hair into twin pigtails, in the midst of pinning them up into milkmaid braids when she catches a glimpse of something in Marius’ suitcase.

Curious, she bends down, seeing a tiny velvet box partially concealed by the wrinkled piles of clothing. (One of these days, she’ll finally get Marius to properly fold his clothes.) Looking closer, her stomach does a somersault at the realisation that it’s a ring box, before she quickly tears her gaze away, standing up and refocusing on pinning her hair up to distract from the guilt that overtakes her. He obviously hadn’t meant for her to see that, with the way it’s clearly been buried under piles and piles of clothing.

She’s just laced up her espadrille sneakers, blue to match her shirt-dress, when Marius emerges from the bathroom, running a towel through his dampened hair in an attempt to dry it out. He’s wearing a navy-blue polo shirt over khaki shorts, and Cosette grins at him. “Hey, we match!”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Marius seems to have his head in the clouds, not quite focused on what he’s saying as he tosses the towel back into the bathroom through the open doorway, pulling on a pair of socks and lacing up his denim-blue Chucks. Despite herself, Cosette has a feeling it might have to do with the ring box—or at least, what she thinks was a ring box—hidden at the bottom of his suitcase.

She has to talk to someone about that. Maybe Jehan.

Or maybe not. She has the feeling Marius will consult him about proposal ideas. Because everyone goes to Jehan for that kind of stuff.

Maybe she’ll have a talk with the girls. They’d understand. She hopes.

But maybe they won’t! Musichetta’s made it clear that she’s never getting married unless it ever becomes legal for her to marry both Joly and Bossuet without it being considered, you know, a crime, and Éponine’s been free as a bird for the past couple of years minus some brief flings here and there, ever since she finally worked up the nerve to dump Montparnasse, who had been a junior when they were freshmen and an all-around asshole.

Cosette purses her lips. She _could_ always talk to Bahorel. They’ve developed a strange bond over their mutual interest in fashion, and he’s become a confidant of sorts for her. He would listen.

Or maybe she can just talk to the girls?

“You okay?” Cosette jumps at the sound of Marius’ voice, only now noticing that he’s staring at her strangely. She doesn’t blame him—a quick glance at her watch shows that she’s been overthinking for the past five minutes.

Which means they have roughly a minute to get downstairs before the others abandon them.

_Shit._

“We gotta go!” she yelps, grabbing her little crepe-pink backpack and slinging it over one shoulder, grabbing Marius’ hand in one hand and their room key in the other, and it’s out the door they go.

* * *

Enjolras looks at his watch, clicking his tongue as he taps his foot impatiently, eyes constantly darting to the elevators. “How much longer are they going to keep us waiting?”

“Courf, you _did_ tell them they’ve got thirty minutes, right?” Feuilly asks, his tone cautious—Courfeyrac’s been in a bad mood all morning, apparently due to Combeferre having woken him up far too early for his liking.

Courfeyrac scowls at Feuilly. “’Course I did!” he huffs, crossing his arms across his chest petulantly as Éponine rolls her eyes and elbows him. “It’s not my fault Marius is the least punctual person we know.”

As if on cue, a set of elevator doors slide open and Marius and Cosette dash into the lobby, out of breath. Cosette’s hair is perfect, done up in adorable milkmaid braids; as if in contrast, Marius’ is an utter mess, auburn locks still slightly damp and sticking out in every direction.

Cosette quickly composes herself while Marius places his hands on his knees, catching his breath as Cosette flashes them all an apologetic smile. “Sorry we’re late. So what’s the plan for today, or this morning, at least?”

“We’ll go sightseeing,” Combeferre says. “I’ve bought us tickets online for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, from eleven o’clock to one, and then I was thinking after lunch, we could go to the Cleveland Botanical Garden and the _Christmas Story_ house.” He raises his eyebrows, open to feedback. “Any thoughts?”

“Um, before we do that, could we perhaps figure out where we’re having breakfast first?” Bahorel asks sardonically, bored out of his mind as he scrolls through Instagram.

Combeferre rolls his eyes. “I was getting there,” he tells Bahorel, struggling to remain patient. “Let’s vote on it—eating in the hotel dining hall or going out?”

Only three hands go up at the prospect of eating in the dining hall—Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet. Éponine bites back a cackle at how painfully outnumbered they are.

Combeferre raises his eyebrows. “Alright, it looks like we’ll be finding breakfast outside, then!”

After grabbing a bite at a nearby Arby’s, they’re well on their way to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, only a seventeen-minute walk from the hotel. Cosette falls in beside Éponine and Musichetta after telling Marius she’ll be walking on her own for a bit, prompting him to go walk with Courfeyrac, and she contemplates telling them what she accidentally discovered earlier that morning.

She must have stayed quiet for a tad bit too long, because Musichetta turns to look at her, cocking her head to the side. “Something on your mind, babe?”

Cosette shrugs noncommittally. She wishes she had pockets to shove her hands into, to emphasise her outward nonchalance.

“You look fresh, by the way,” Éponine tells her, whistling in approval. “What are you wearing?”

“Oh, this?” Cosette looks down at her outfit. “I just borrowed one of Marius’ shirts and put a belt around my waist.”

Éponine barks out a laugh. “Ingenious.”

She throws her arms around Musichetta and Cosette’s shoulders, having about three inches on them, and sighs. “Can’t wait to get to New York.”

“What are you planning on doing in New York?” Cosette asks.

Éponine shrugs, jutting out her bottom lip. “Who knows? We could go on a Broadway binge—”

“That’s going to be expensive,” Musichetta interjects.

Éponine turns her head to give her a look. “I _know_ , dumbass. But we have Jehan and pretty boy’s money supporting us. They’d pay for anything if we bother them for long enough.”

Cosette snorts at the thought of Éponine constantly pestering Enjolras for money to pay for her highly self-indulgent activities as the brunette continues, “We’re also going to NYC Pride, that’s going to be amazing, and Bahorel will probably drag us all into going on another shopping spree that’ll waste time for the rest of us, but you know what? It’s fucking New York, I could stay there forever.”

“Oh, have you been?” Cosette questions, intrigued by the wistfulness in Éponine’s voice.

Éponine laughs, shaking her head. “God, no. That’s why I can’t wait. Gonna see for myself if it lives up to my expectations.”

Musichetta mumbles something they can’t quite catch, prompting both Éponine and Cosette to turn and look at her. “Sorry, what was that?” Cosette asks, brow furrowed.

“Nothing, I’m just saying that you shouldn’t expect much when it comes to the subway, most of it’s a rat-infested nightmare,” Musichetta says, giving a flippant shrug of her shoulders.

Éponine sighs, grinning. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to love it.”

It isn’t long until they’ve arrived at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, deciding to break off into groups and meet up at the café sometime around twelve-thirty for lunch. Cosette hesitates, wondering whether she should go with Marius or stay with the girls. After several moments of contemplation, she approaches him, tapping him on the shoulder.

Marius turns around, having been engaged in conversation with Jehan up until now, and Cosette gives him a little smile. “Would you mind if I went with the girls instead?” she asks, biting her lip.

Marius’ brow furrows. “Pookie, you know you don’t need my permission to do anything. Go right ahead!”

The tension evaporates from her muscles and Cosette throws her arms around him in a quick embrace, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “See you at lunch!”

She scampers back over to Éponine and Musichetta, odd looks on their faces. Cosette raises her eyebrows. “What?”

“You’re not going with Marius?” Musichetta asks, curious.

Cosette shakes her head, resisting a snort. “No! He and I don’t have to be attached at the hip twenty-four/seven to prove we’re in a relationship, you know. I have a life outside of him.”

Éponine laughs and puts an arm around Cosette, bumping her hip. “We know, babe. No need to get so defensive.”

Cosette rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing along with the both of them. “I’m really not.”

The trio wander off, straying from the rest as they go on a hunt for the actual hall of fame itself, Musichetta having read of inductees’ career-defining playlists compiled by the Hall’s education team and insistent on listening to more ABBA. They take their time in doing so, strolling arm in arm as they look around at the exhibits they pass. They must make for a strange sight—Éponine with her space buns and vaguely mismatched clothes, an open flannel with a My Chemical Romance shirt and ripped jean shorts underneath along with her trusty ratty black Chucks, Cosette in her shirt-dress and milkmaid braids and espadrille sneakers, and Musichetta donning white shortalls and one of Bossuet’s shirts as well as Birkenstocks.

They stop for a bit when they come across the Elvis Presley exhibit, Éponine eyeing one of his outfits with vague interest. Her mind seems to be somewhere else, as proven literally five seconds later, when she muses aloud, “The Jonas Brothers should be in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”

Musichetta nearly drops to the floor, she’s laughing so hard.

Cosette clamps her hands over her mouth to stifle the giggle fit that overtakes her, snorting in between laughs as Musichetta chokes out, “Ep, have you lost your mind?”

Éponine purses her lips, glaring at the two of them. “I take offence to that! And no, I haven’t! The Jonas Brothers single-handedly invented music and I think they deserve to be in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”

Musichetta shakes her head, still cackling. “Éponine, my dear, you’re ridiculous.”

Éponine rolls her eyes and flips Musichetta off, but she’s laughing, reaching out to put her arm around Musichetta’s shoulders. “Fuck you.”

“Love you too, honey.”

Cosette’s strayed away a little bit from them, gazing at Elvis’ motorcycle and humming along to “Can’t Help Falling in Love” when she remembers her accidental little discovery from that morning. Dashing back to the other two, she grabs them both by the arms, urgently, as if her life depends on it. It kind of does, actually.

“I need to talk to you two,” she says, breathless.

Éponine raises an eyebrow as she quips, “You’re talking to us right now.”

Cosette gives her a look, blue eyes narrowing. “I’m being serious, Eppy.”

Éponine promptly falls silent as Musichetta gestures for Cosette to go on. “Okay, shoot.”

Cosette bites her lip, hesitating for a few moments before she blurts out in a low whisper, “I think I found a ring in Marius’ suitcase this morning.”

Éponine’s jaw drops open and the high-pitched screech that tears away from Musichetta’s throat echoes all throughout the exhibit, earning them dirty looks from the other visitors.

Cosette’s cheeks flame red in embarrassment and she takes that as her cue to usher Éponine and Musichetta out of that area, mouthing apologies to the people they pass by. Once they’ve found themselves a fairly secluded part of the building, Cosette lets herself breathe again.

“I’m not sure if it actually was a ring!” she yelps just before Éponine and Musichetta can open their mouths to speak. “I only saw the box, and even then it was half-buried under his clothes. But he and I’ve been talking about getting married for some time now, so… I don’t know.”

Éponine looks as if she wants to say something and has just opened her mouth to say it before Musichetta elbows her sharply in the ribs. Éponine shoots her a withering glare, but Musichetta doesn’t notice, all her attention on Cosette instead. “When do you think he’s going to propose?” she questions, interest piqued.

Cosette’s eyes widen. “That’s the thing! I don’t know! I’m not prepared. Well, I am, but…” She huffs, lips pursing into a pout. “I shouldn’t have done that. I wasn’t meant to see it. Now I’ll be obsessing over it until he actually does propose.”

Éponine throws an arm around Cosette, patting her on the back. “Fear not, fair lady!” she proclaims dramatically, evoking a snort from Cosette. “We’ll be here to provide a diversion whenever you’re in want or need of one!” She pauses, then bursts out laughing. “No, but seriously, if you’re ever obsessing over the matter, we’ll be there to distract you.”

Cosette laughs, rolling her eyes. “Thanks, you two. I really appreciate it.”

Éponine loops her other arm around Musichetta’s shoulders, grinning as Musichetta declares, “To ABBA we go!”

Éponine and Cosette whoop in response as the three of them fall into step side by side, singing ABBA at the top of their lungs and heedless of the glares other tourists shoot their way in favour of paying tribute to one of the greatest bands the world has ever known.

“Love me or leave me, make your choice, but believe me, I love you! I do, I do, I do, I do, I do!…”

* * *

“Chiquitita, tell me what’s wroooong…”

Combeferre rolls his eyes for what feels like the millionth time that day as he carries Courfeyrac on his back while Enjolras walks beside them, trying his darnedest to hide a smile at how Courfeyrac clings to Combeferre like a koala, singing ABBA incredibly off-key into his ear. They’re on their way to the café to meet up with the others, Courfeyrac having somehow convinced Combeferre to give him a piggyback ride to the café. Astonishingly, Combeferre agreed.

Courfeyrac wails out the lyrics to “Chiquitita”, Combeferre shaking his head as a fond smile plays at his lips at the sound, so tuneless yet endearing, probably because it’s Courfeyrac.

Letting out a sigh as he comes to the end of his song, Courfeyrac rests his chin on Combeferre’s shoulder as the three of them go on a search for the café, having circled half the first floor already in their hunt for it. “Are we there yet?” he whines, laying his head against Combeferre’s shoulder and pouting, not noticing how Combeferre’s cheeks turn pink.

“Almost,” Enjolras replies patiently, patting Courfeyrac on the back before he retracts his hand when the diminutive man hisses at him. “Jesus Christ, Courf, you could have just told me if you didn’t want to be touched.”

“Eh, I find hissing at people to work better,” Courfeyrac says with a little smirk. He smacks Combeferre on the head when he sees him roll his eyes.

They aren’t the first ones to get to the café, they soon find, seeing Jehan and Marius sitting by the window engaged in deep conversation, Marius nibbling on a croissant every once in a while. “Hey!” Courfeyrac calls out, leaning around Combeferre and waving at them, beaming when they turn.

Courfeyrac jumps off Combeferre’s back, allowing him and Enjolras to go order themselves food as he goes to plop down beside Marius and Jehan. “What did you guys do? Didn’t you go together?”

Marius has just opened his mouth to respond before Cosette, Éponine, and Musichetta enter the café, chatting between themselves as they go up to join Enjolras and Combeferre in ordering food. Cosette lingers for a while, catching Marius’ eye and giving him a little wave, and the moment Jehan looks at her, he bursts into tears.

Cosette doesn’t seem to notice how Jehan instantly starts crying at the sight of her, going to join Éponine and Musichetta, and Courfeyrac shoots him an incredulous look, startled. “Jehan, what the hell was that?”

Jehan just bites his lip to keep himself from crying even harder as Marius rushes to explain everything to Courfeyrac, blurting out all in one breath and in a hushed whisper, “I was talking to Jehan about public proposal ideas because I’ve talked about that with Cosette and she told me she’s fine with it so I need ideas now because I already have a ring and I’m gonna ask her to marry me sometime on this road trip but I don’t know _when_ because I have no idea where I’m going to do it because it has to be _big_ so I went to Jehan for suggestions and now he just starts crying every time he sees her but it’s fine because she already knows I’m going to propose but she doesn’t know when and that’s why I went to Jehan to ask for advice in the first place.”

Courfeyrac just gapes at Marius, jaw hanging open. “Can you run all that by me again?”

Jehan’s taken out a handkerchief and he furiously wipes at his face with it, blubbering, “The point is, he’s going to _propose_! And it’s going to be so sweet! And—and—ah!” He dissolves into a weeping mess once again, leaving Marius to bury his face in his hands in sheer bewilderment.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Courf!” he wails, jutting out his bottom lip much like a child would.

Courfeyrac’s eyes widen in alarm. “Well, I don’t know what you expect _me_ to say! I’ve never proposed to anyone!”

Marius gives him a pleading look, so Courfeyrac relents, rolling his eyes and sighing loudly. “Alright, _fine_. You’ll want to pick a spot that means something to the both of you so you two will have even more good memories to associate with that place. Has she talked about anyplace that means a lot to her lately?”

Marius considers it for a moment, and his face lights up.

Meanwhile, Éponine, Musichetta, and Cosette are standing in line, waiting to pay for their lunch as Cosette rapidly recounts what she’s just witnessed. “Jehan started _crying_ when he saw me. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s supposed to mean that Marius talked to him, probably to ask for proposal advice, and now he can’t look at you without crying because he’s the biggest sap we know,” Musichetta replies matter-of-factly. Éponine looks like she wants to say something yet again before Musichetta elbows her. Yet again.

They find themselves a few tables, Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire being the last to show up, having gotten lost on their way there. Grantaire buys himself a sandwich before sliding down into an empty seat beside Éponine, scooting closer to her and throwing his arm around her shoulders as he grins at the others. “So? What did you think?”

“I think this road trip might not be as much of a disaster as I initially thought it would be,” Enjolras admits, taking a sip of his coffee. Grantaire pumps a fist into the air triumphantly.

“Yeah, this is actually turning out to be really fun,” Feuilly agrees, smiling at Enjolras. “Great bonding experience for all of us.”

Combeferre presses his lips together, a corner of his mouth turning up in a slight smile as he gazes sideways at an oblivious Courfeyrac. “Yeah, it is.”

Éponine doesn’t fail to pick up on how Combeferre has been shooting some sidelong glances Courfeyrac’s way, and she turns to Enjolras, seated on the opposite side of her, grinning and nudging him suggestively. He rolls his eyes, downing the rest of his coffee and giving her a look.

“If any of y’all want to see it later, I got some footage of Joly losing his mind and crying when we found ABBA,” Grantaire says, waving his phone around as Joly buries his face in his hands, flushing scarlet in embarrassment.

Musichetta reaches across and snatches the phone out of Grantaire’s hands as Jehan gobbles up all his food in under ten minutes, earning himself strange looks from everyone else. He looks up in the middle of chewing on a big bite he’d just taken out of his burger, eyebrows creasing. “What? If we eat faster, we’ll get to go to the Botanical Garden faster.”

Grantaire barks out a laugh, throwing an arm around Jehan. “Oh, Jehan, my sweet summer child. Please never change.”

He doesn’t notice how Jehan turns the faintest shade of pink at his words as the corners of his mouth tug upwards in a smile.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writer's block is a bitch, y'all! it's weighed me down for the past few months on this fic, but i hope this update was worth it! let me know what you think!! ^_^


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